How she would run to me to help me on,
And kiss me oft that saw her not—until
I felt the hot tears on my hand. I chid her;
Telling her not to weep that was not blind,
As I that had no eyes could have no tears:
And thus I cheer’d her. But at last she died.
And my old falcon died, and my old horse;
And last of all the dog. But Jansen lives.
Jansen, Jansen!—where is he?
Icelin. Jansen, Jansen!—where is he?He is coming.