Still the tapestry is hanging
On the walls of Château Blay
That was wrought by Tripoli's Countess:
You can see it to this day.

As she stitched, she stitched her soul in,
And love's consecrating tears
Once bedewed that silken picture,
Where the scene portrayed appears.

Of her meeting with Rudèl
Pale and dying on the shore,
When she found her heart's ideal—
Found, and lost for evermore.

It was here Rudèl saw also,
For the first time and the last,
Her of whom he had so often
Dreamed of fondly in the past.

And the Countess, bending over,
Holds him fondly in her arms,
While the pallid mouth she kisses
That so sweetly sang her charms.

Ah, that tender kiss of greeting
Was the parting kiss of pain!
Highest bliss and deepest anguish
In one cup the lovers drain.

Every night in Château Blay
There's a strange and furtive sound;
From the tapestry the figures
Rustle gently to the ground;

And the troubadour and lady
Stretch their shadow-limbs and go
Softly wandering together
In the castle to and fro.

Tender whispers and caresses,
Sad sweet love and lovers' ways,
Gallant posthumous endearments
Of the Minnesinger days.

“Geoffrey! Dead although my heart is,
At thy voice how it can thrill!
I can feel the embers glowing
In its sunken ashes still.”

“Melisanda! Joy and flower!
When I gaze into thine eyes
I awake to life; dead only
Are earth's sorrows and its sighs.”

“We in dream were lovers, Geoffrey,
And in death are lovers dear.
That god Amor hath a marvel
Wrought in our behoof is clear.”

“Melisanda! What is dreaming?
What is death? Mere words of air?
Love alone is true and real,
And I love thee, ever fair!”

“In this moonlit chamber, Geoffrey,
How unvext the moments run!
I desire no more to wander
In the radiance of the sun.”

“Melisanda! Foolish darling!
Thou thyself art sun and light;
Where thou goest May must blossom,
Spring with flowers and love be bright.”

So the tender ghosts, caressing,
Stroll and love, while others sleep;
And the moon-beams through the arches
Of the windows slyly peep.

But when dawn begins to redden
In the east, they softly fall,
Rustling back, into the arras,
And are pictures on the wall.