Tristan and Isolda

KURVENAL. No, no; in Kareol.

TRISTAN. How came I here?

KURVENAL. Hey now! how you came?

No horse hither you rode:

a vessel bore you across.

But on my shoulders

down to the ship

you had to ride: they are broad,

they carried you to the shore.

Now you are at home once more;

your own the land,

your native land;

all loved things now are near you,

unchanged the sun doth cheer you.

The wounds from which you languish

here all shall end their anguish.

(He presses himself toTRISTAN'S breast.)

TRISTAN. Think'st thou thus!

I know 'tis not so,

but this I cannot tell thee.

Where I awoke

ne'er I was,

but where I wandered

I can indeed not tell thee.

The sun I could not see,

nor country fair, nor people;

but what I saw

I can indeed not tell thee.

It was-

the land from which I once came

and whither I return:

the endless realm

of earthly night.

One thing only

there possessed me:

blank, unending,

all-oblivion.-

How faded all forebodings!

O wistful goadings!-

Thus I call

the thoughts that all

t'ward light of day have press'd me.

What only yet doth rest me,

the love-pains that possess'd me,

from blissful death's affright

now drive me toward the light,

which, deceitful, bright and golden,

round thee, Isolda, shines.

Accursed day

with cruel glow!

Must thou ever

wake my woe?

Must thy light

be burning ever,

e'en by night

our hearts to sever?

Ah, my fairest,

sweetest, rarest!

When wilt thou-

when, ah, when-

let the torchlight dwindle,

that so my bliss may kindle?

The light, how long it glows!

When will the house repose?

(His voice has grown fainter and he sinks back gently,

exhausted.)

KURVENAL (who has been deeply distressed, now quickly rousts

himself from his dejection).

I once defied,

through faith in thee,

the one for whom

now with thee I'm yearning.

Trust in my words,

thou soon shalt see her

face to face.

My tongue that comfort giveth,-

if on the earth still she liveth.

TRISTAN (very feebly). Yet burns the beacon's spark:

yet is the house not dark,

Isolda lives and wakes:

her voice through darkness breaks.

KURVENAL. Lives she still,

then let new hope delight thee.

If foolish and dull you hold me,

this day you must not scold me.

As dead lay'st thou

since the day

when that accursed Melot

so foully wounded thee.

Thy wound was heavy:

how to heal it?

Thy simple servant

there bethought

that she who once

closed Morold's wound

with ease the hurt could heal thee

that Melot's sword did deal thee.