O my king, O my son! Ah, woe's me for my kindness, For the day when thou drew'st me and I let thee be drawn Into toils I knew deadly, into death thou desiredst! And woe's me that I die not! for my body made hardy By the battles of old days to bear every anguish!     —Speak a word and forgive me, for who knows how long yet Are the days of my life, and the hours of my loathing! He speaks not, he moves not; yet he draweth breath softly:     I have seen men a-dying, and not thus did the end come. Surely God who made all forgets not love's rewarding, Forgets not the faithful, the guileless who fear not. Oh, might there be help yet, and some new life's beginning!     —Lo, lighter the mist grows: there come sounds through its dulness, The lowing of kine, or the whoop of a shepherd, The bell-wether's tinkle, or clatter of horse-hoofs. A homestead is nigh us: I will fare down the highway And seek for some helping: folk said simple people Abode in this valley, and these may avail us—     If aught it avail us to live for a little.     —Yea, give it us, God!—all the fame and the glory We fought for and gained once; the life of well-doing, Fair deed thrusting on deed, and no day forgotten; And due worship of folk that his great heart had holpen;—     All I prayed for him once now no longer I pray for.     Let it all pass away as my warm breath now passeth In the chill of the morning mist wherewith thou hidest Fair vale and grey mountain of the land we are come to! Let it all pass away! but some peace and some pleasure I pray for him yet, and that I may behold it. A prayer little and lowly,—and we in the old time When the world lay before us, were we hard to the lowly? Thou know'st we were kind, howso hard to be beaten; Wilt thou help us this last time? or what hast thou hidden We know not, we name not, some crown for our striving?     —O body and soul of my son, may God keep thee! For, as lone as thou liest in a land that we see not When the world loseth thee, what is left for its losing?

THE MUSIC

LOVE IS ENOUGH

Enter before the curtain, LOVE clad as a Pilgrim.

Alone, afar from home doth Pharamond lie, Drawn near to death, ye deem—or what draws nigh? Afar from home—and have ye any deeming How far may be that country of his dreaming? Is it not time, is it not time, say ye, That we the day-star in the sky should see?

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