THE CHILD
I hear them sing, "Come, newly-married bride,
Come, to the woods and waters and pale lights."
MARY
I will go with you.
FATHER HART
She is lost, alas!
THE CHILD (standing by the door)
But clinging mortal hope must fall from you,
For we who ride the winds, run on the waves,
And dance upon the mountains are more light
Than dewdrops on the banner of the dawn.
MARY
O, take me with you.