Till Merow spake: ‘Dear heart, the night creeps on,
Hanging the distance with her silver mists,
And the swift-darting swallows leave the pool
Unrippled by their wings, while the quick bat
Haunts their deserted ways in flickering haste:
Come, let us journey onward now to Tours.
Is the way weary that is urged by love,
Love, who has shown us so delightful things?’
“He raised me to the saddle, kissed the foot
He placed within the stirrup, and we rode,