While there is food and house-room.
CATHLEEN.
He bids me go
Where none of mortal creatures but the swan
Dabbles, and there you would pluck the harp when the trees
Had made a heavy shadow about our door,
And talk among the rustling of the reeds
When night hunted the foolish sun away,
With stillness and pale tapers. No—no—no.
I cannot. Although I weep, I do not weep