The Child. True heart! The hour rounds up; thy wine-press waits;
And so this music fades: the silver tones
Thin out, and faintly drip delight, and cease,
No willing man nor bird hears how. Good-night,
O soon-made-perfect!
II
Night. The same fields. Didymus wakes, alone.
Didymus. It is black, and chill.
My little piper’s gone.... How I have dreamed,
How I have dreamed! Lord, gather quietly