The best that once it hoped survives in her.
“All love is Sacrifice—a flame that still
Illumes, yet cleanses as with fire, the breast:
It frees and lifts the holier heart and will;
A heap of ashes pale it leaves the rest.”
Thus spake the hermit from his stony chair;
Then long time watched her speeding towards her home,
As when a dove through sunset's roseate air
Sails to her nest o'er crag and ocean's foam.
VIII.