Oh, then we awoke with sudden start

From our deep dream, and knew, too late,

How bare the rock, how desolate,

Which had received our precious freight:

Yet we called out—"Depart!

Our gifts, once given, must here abide.

Our work is done; we have no heart

To mar our work,"—we cried.

Fest. In truth?

Par. Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint