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His wide eyes stare out for the light
Weary. He needs must chide on fate,
And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate,
What! wilt thou on the mountain crest
Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest?
Or must I clear some uncouth cave
That laired the mother wolf, and save--
Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine
To be a bed for thee and thine?
It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he,
'Mine; but who dares to pity thee
Shall pity, not for loss of all,
But that thou wert my wife perdie,
E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,--
A man beholden to the cold
Cloud for a covering, he being sold
And hunted for reward of gold.

XXXVI.
But who shall chronicle the ways
Of common folk--the nights and days
Spent with rough goatherds on their snows,
Of travellers come whence no man knows,
Then gone aloft on some sharp height
In the dumb peace and the great light
Amid brown eagles and wild roes?

XXXVII.
'Tis the whole world whereon they lie,
The rocky pastures hung on high
Shelve off upon an empty sky.


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