She said, “Yes—but I lie bleeding on the moss,
Crying this word.”
I answered, “This is so; but wherefore?” and asked, idly,
“Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fire
The log that now is ashes?”
She shivered in the cold dawn;
I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows.
Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow,
But I could fit no more arrows to it.
She said, “Hunter, see how gray are these rocks