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"They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen,

And one draws nigh, but two are afar." "Look, look, do you know them who they are, Little brother?"68 (O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?)

"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast." "The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) 77

"He has made a sign and called Halloo! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you." "Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew,

Little brother." 82 (O Mother, Mary Mother,

Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?)

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,
Sister Helen,
That Keith of Ewern's like to die."
"And he and thou, and thou and I,

Little brother."89 (O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)

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"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven ?)

"Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern's cry,
Sister Helen,

Is ever to see you ere he die."
"In all that his soul sees, there am I,

144

Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, The soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." "What else he broke will he ever join, 151 Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain." "What else he took will he give again, Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!) 161

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"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen,

For I know the white hair on the blast." "The short, short hour will soon be past, 172 Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He looks at me and he tries to speak, Sister Helen,

But oh! his voice is sad and weak!" "What here should the mighty Baron seek, Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?) 182

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When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made
known?

Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love! if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 11 How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope

The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,

The wind of Death's imperishable wing?

LOVE-SWEETNESS

Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head

In gracious fostering union garlanded; Her tremulous smiles; her glances' sweet recail Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial;

Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed

On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led Back to her mouth which answers there for all:

What sweeter than these things, except the thing

1 the ferryman who in Greek mythology conveyed the spirits of the dead across the river Styx to Hades

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What other woman could be loved like you,
Or how of you should love possess his fill?
After the fulness of all rapture, still,
As at the end of some deep avenue

A tender glamour of day, there comes to view

Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill,

Such fire as Love's soul-winnowing hands distil

Even from his inmost ark of light and dew. And as the traveller triumphs with the sun, Glorying in heat's mid-height, yet startide brings

Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs

II

From limpid lambent hours of day begun; Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul

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Was that the landmark? What, the foolish well

Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink,

But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink

In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell, (And mine own image, had I noted well!)

Was that my point of turning? — I had thought

The stations of my course should rise unsought,

As altar-stone or ensigned citadel.

But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,

And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring

ΙΟ

Which once I stained, which since may have grown black.

Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing

As here I turn, I'll thank God, hastening, That the same goal is still on the same track.

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