Like the soft deepening of a northern eye.
‘Come! my own glorious boy!’ and forth he sprang,
As he had been created of the morn
A spirit and an element of light.
‘Come! Come!’ and he was bounding airily
Beside his stately mother, laughing out
His lisping prattle of the promised boat,
As if her words had been in playfulness,
‘That the bright waves should float him on to heaven.’
The morning mist stole up, as Meina knelt