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They scarce may track
Her swift rising, shot on high
Like a ray from the western sky,
Or a lark from some grey wold
Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.

XLVIII.
Then these two long silence hold,
And the lisping babe doth say
'White white bird, it flew away.'
And they marvel at these things,
For her ghostly visitings
Turn to them another face.
Haply she was sent, a friend
Trying them, and to good end
For their better weal and grace;
One more wonder let to be
In the might and mystery
Of the world, where verily
And good sooth a man may wend
All his life, and no more view
Than the one right next to do.

XLIX.
So, the welcome dusk is here,
Sweet is even, rest is dear;
Mountain heads have lost the light,
Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night.
Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying.
('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.')
'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying
"Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet.


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