We left the levels, we left the river,
And turned us and toiled to the air above.
to fetch a paile of water,
By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow,
The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips—
Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk to-morrow—
The wells of lethe for wearied lips.
With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter,
With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray,
We bowed us and bent to the white well-water,