I am rooted. But haste, oh sweet bird, to your lover;
So freely you’re flying,
A-flutter, a-flutter.
Sink hither,
Not thither.
Hark how my leaves mutter,
Night’s vanished. Love’s born.’
The bird flew—ah, whither? The tree was forlorn.”
She stroked his hand. “In true love,” she said, “there’s always one who could but won’t, and one who would but cannot.”
“Not always,” he denied. He spoke confidently, remembering his mother and father.