Isolt of the white hands, in Brittany,
could see no longer northward
anywhere
a picture more alive (or less familiar) than a blank ocean
and the same white birds flying (always flying), and still flying.
{ She USED to be able to see a picture more alive northward, but no longer. }
{ She used to be able to see a picture more familiar notherward,
Yet the birds never brought any news of him -- him that she remembered, who
had sailed away the spring before, saying he would come back (although not saying when).
For all their flying, Isolt thought, not one of those birds had heard the name of Tristram, or had heard of him
beside her there; the King, her father.
