“I have mended,
Green one, all the wounds made here on earth—
Or there—by deed of angels. In the old days
They fell—not such as we are—and their fall,
As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons,
The daughters of frail man. If this is such—”
“It is. Come in with me, shrunk to the likeness
Of a lean passing farmer. I have herbs
And needles. You have strength, and a strange art.
Between us—but come quickly!”