Classic Poem

I am Tristram watching how the young souls tilt. —
I lean with thee, my dark-haired tourney-bride,
Against this pillar, — press thee to my side,
And sheathe my strong sword bloodied to the hilt.
The stains of blood are dry thereon. Unspilt
Shall be the red flood in this battle-tide: —
No more my plume goes, swaying in its pride,
Athwart the mêlee: hushed my battle-lilt.

Sweet, watch with me the combatants, — nor ask
Thy knightly Tristram to unsheathe his sword.
To unhorse these youths were all too easy task:
Their maidens' kisses are not my reward.
Lo! I am Tristram. Iseult, share with me
The swordless bloodless calm of victory.