O flower of the branch, O bird among the leaves,
O silver fish that my two hands have taken
Out of the running stream, O morning star,
Trembling in the blue heavens like a white fawn
Upon the misty border of the wood,
Bend lower, that I may cover you with my hair,
For we will gaze upon this world no longer.
[The harp begins to burn as with fire.]
Forgael [gathering DECTORA’S hair about him]. Beloved, having dragged the net about us,
And knitted mesh to mesh, we grow immortal;