And hangs below my waist.
“He runs before me in the meads
And down the world-worn track
He leads me on—but as he leads
He never glances back.
“Yet still his voice is in my dreams
To witch me o’er and o’er
That wooing voice! Ah, me—it seems
Less near me than before.”
A pause—a little wistful interlude of tinkling notes in a minor key.