Explore "At Tintagil" by Sara Teasdale on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Iseult, Iseult, by the long waterways / Watching the wintry moon, white as a flower, / I have remembered how once in Tintagil / You heard the tread of Time hour after hour.
By casements hung with night, while all your women slept / You turned toward Brittany, awake, alone, / In the high chamber hushed, save where the candle dripped / With the slow patient sound of blood on stone.
The ache of empty arms was an old tale to you, / And all the tragic tunes that love can play, / Yet with no woman born would you have changed your lot, / Though there were greater queens who had been gay.