It ebbed back o'er the blighted ground.
Up then she rose and took his hand
And never a moment did they stand.
"Come, love," she cried, "the ways I know,
How thick soe'er the thickets grow.
O love, I love thee! O thine heart!
How mighty and how kind thou art!"
Therewith they saw the tree-dusk lit,
Bright grey the great boles gleamed on it.
"O flee," she said, "the sword is nought