* * * * *
She looked back o’er her shoulder fair:
“The whelming poison-pool is here;
And now availeth nought the blade:
O if my cherished trees might aid!
But now my feet fail. Leave me then!
And hold my memory dear of men.”
He caught her in his arms again;
Of her dear side was he full fain.
Her body in his arms was dear:
“Sweet art thou, though we perish here!”
Like quicksilver came on the flood:
But lo, the borders of the wood!
She slid from out his arms and stayed;
Round a great oak her arms she laid.
“If e’er I saved thee, lovely tree,
From axe and saw, now, succour me:
Look how the venom creeps anigh,
Help! lest thou see me writhe and die.”