“My love hath many an evil mood
Ill words for all things soft and fair,
I hold him dearer than the good,
My fingers feel his amber hair.
“No tender wisdom floods the eyes
That watch me with their suppliant light—
I hold him dearer than the wise,
And for him make me wise and bright.”
And when she saw him she cried, “An old mortal song heard floating from a tent of skin, as we rode, I and mine, through a camping-place at night.” From that day she was always either singing wild and melancholy songs or else watching him with that gaze of animal reverie.
Once he asked, “How old are you?”