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Brush the mold from Yseult's hair and face:
     And you will find that swarthy furious gold
     Still smoldering under the blanket of black mold;
And you will find those eyelids frail as lace;
Eyes like blue stones washed in a windy place;
     That mouth whose glowing motion once controlled
     Cornwall and Lyonnesse; that throat as cold
As a long curve in water, white as a vase
Of moon-swept ivory: you will discover
     That body whose keen pallor was a sword
Unsheathed only for one lord and lover,
     Flashing only for one lover and lord:
Your eyes will blur to find with sharp surprise
Tears burning on her eyelids and her eyes!