“What canst thou know of love, O loveless priest?
How comfort me for all which I have lost?
Nay then, bend not nor blush; my bitterness
Has made my tongue a whip, I see, to score
The poor weak body which is consecrate,
Yet sometimes turns from heaven, desiring earth.”
She ended, and the priest spake unto her,
Turning on her his melancholy eyes:
“Brunhild, I blame thee not for bitterness,
Nor that thy words have vexed my quiet soul