Farewell I bid thee; so bid thou not me, Lest the Gods hear and mock us; yet on these I lay the weight not of this grief, nor cast Ill words for ill deeds back; for if one say They have done men wrong, what hurt have they to hear, Or he what help to have said it? surely, child, If one among men born might say it and live 970 Blameless, none more than I may, who being vexed Hold yet my peace; for now through tears enough Mine eyes have seen the sun that from this day Thine shall see never more; and in the night Enough has blown of evil, and mine ears With wail enough the winds have filled, and brought Too much of cloud from over the sharp sea To mar for me the morning; such a blast Rent from these wide void arms and helpless breast Long since one graft of me disbranched, and bore 980 Beyond the wild ways of the unwandered world And loud wastes of the thunder-throated sea, Springs of the night and openings of the heaven, The old garden of the Sun; whence never more From west or east shall winds bring back that blow From folds of opening heaven or founts of night The flower of mine once ravished, born my child To bear strange children; nor on wings of theirs Shall comfort come back to me, nor their sire Breathe help upon my peril, nor his strength 990 Raise up my weakness; but of Gods and men I drift unsteered on ruin, and the wave Darkens my head with imminent height, and hangs Dumb, filled too full with thunder that shall leave These ears death-deafened when the tide finds tongue And all its wrath bears on them; thee, O child, I help not, nor am holpen; fain, ah fain, More than was ever mother born of man, Were I to help thee; fain beyond all prayer, Beyond all thought fain to redeem thee, torn 1000 More timeless from me sorrowing than the dream That was thy sister; so shalt thou be too, Thou but a vision, shadow-shaped of sleep, By grief made out of nothing; now but once I touch, but once more hold thee, one more kiss This last time and none other ever more Leave on thy lips and leave them. Go; thou wast My heart, my heart's blood, life-blood of my life, My child, my nursling; now this breast once thine Shall rear again no children; never now 1010 Shall any mortal blossom born like thee Lie there, nor ever with small silent mouth Draw the sweet springs dry for an hour that feed The blind blithe life that knows not; never head Rest here to make these cold veins warm, nor eye Laugh itself open with the lips that reach Lovingly toward a fount more loving; these Death makes as all good lesser things now dead, And all the latter hopes that flowered from these And fall as these fell fruitless; no joy more 1020