Wooing me, lurking for me in my path,
Hid your eternal cold with woman’s eyes,
Snared me with shows of love—and all was lies.”
She answered, “For our kind must come to all
If bidden, but in the shape for which they call.”
14
“What,” answered Dymer. “Do you change and sway
To serve us, as the obedient planets spin
About the sun? Are you but potter’s clay
For us to mould—unholy to our sin