Classic Poem

I WILL go up to a high tower
And gaze over the sea,
Letting my thoughts as gulls fly,
Utterly, utterly.

And if the wind beats them back
Against cliff and tower,
Breaking their wings, blinding them,
Hour after hour;

Breaking their wings, blinding them, —
At least one may reach
Across Death, my Tristram,
And tremblingly beseech,

That you will tell me if in truth
You loved me only through
The potion that we drank — or for
My own self too!

For this Iseult of the White Hand
Is all, all too fair!
I will go up to a high tower
And ask the winds there.