This Old Strange Man, speaking always in a low, even, mournful voice.
A spirit calling in an old, old tongue
Forgotten in lost graves in lonesome places;
A spirit huddled in an old, old heart
Like a blind crone crouched o'er a long-dead fire;
A spirit shrinking in the old, old hills,
Dreading to step down water or hollow night:
Some seek me dreaming one last hope of joy;
Some have been made too wise by too much joy
And seek me longing for deeper misery,
Knowing that joy is weary in unending,
Changeless and one and easy in low perfection,
While misery has as many shapes as evil
That all must learn, and is made new for ever
By fear of pain desired for love of passion;
But feel, O you who call me through the night,
I bring you neither joy nor misery
But only rest so slow and sad and sodden
You will not know of it—you shall only rest
And lose your soul in my soul evermore.
Sounds of heavy breathing are heard from the sleeping-chamber during his speaking. He is continually reaching to Blanid with his muffled, unseen hands, but she holds them from her as continually.
Blanid, always in an eager, suppressed voice.
I have known joy—I know not what it was,
Mead-fumes that filled me cooling to one drop;
I have known misery—a self-numbed sting
That showed me but another joy to lose;
These were too small, I will have only rest,
And lose my soul in your soul evermore.
But if I die into your drooping limbs
I must be mingled there with him I love;
You may not reach him by your hoary crying,
But raise some human wail for help and light
And he will come and I must follow him
Past where the imaged moon shakes like a soul
Pausing in death between two unknown worlds.
The Old Man.
A sign, a plighting, and I do your will.
Blanid, winding her arms about his arms from one side, so that he cannot touch her, and burying her face in his hood.
Kisses. 'Hast drained my soul's blood in each kiss.
The Old Man.
I go, I go; make me not come again,
For I am in you, you must melt to me
Past where the imaged dark shuts bending lovers'
Close, unseen-imaged faces within life....
Keeping his face turned toward Blanid, he recedes to the door, where he ceases to be seen in the wind that scurries past.
The Voice, immediately and far away.
Help; help; the marsh-lights 'wilder us! A light!
Blanid shuts the door. The fire has now sunk so low that as she crosses the house she is only visible in the half-dark as a dim shape. She pauses by the hearth.
Blanid.
Nay, but I touch toward my joy at last,
And Christ and all His Saints go out like candles
When mass is said and the priest's cup is wiped....
The Voice.
The water laps our waists! Help, help! A light!
Blanid, running to the sleeping-chamber door.
Master, I hear a calling....
After an interval she strikes the door, crying loudly.