And, hard upon each dawn-encolored wave,
Flutters the wavy line of drying sand
Back to the verge: the white line, shadow-quick,
Thrilling there in the dark: an earthen gleam,
Vain huntress of the sea. Suffer me now
To follow and attain Thee, fugitive,
And be my rest, who hast, my whole life long,
Been mine unrest: implored, immortal Love!
A Child enters, with a reed, wearing a wreath of thorns in his hair.
The Child. Soldier, pipe up for me, a herd-boy, glad