The Child. Remember, then,
’Twas breathed to thee at Alexandria,
In early-dying April’s golden air.
Didymus. Do I lie here, who deemed myself afar?
I had forgot; I am foolish, lost, bewildered.
The Child. O mine elect: be patient!... Listen now.
There is an evening anthem in my reed;
And while the laurels sparkle, and sun-lit,
The mother-swallow dips into her cave,
And doves move close along their bridal bough,