Meet, and are one, and have a common life. Yea, my desire at last is one with God: And children are his messengers on earth.” Then Brunhild answered him: “In the frail light, I see so many children whom I bore: But there are none of Merow’s children there; Our marriage was a moment: and our sons Were dreams we saw in one another’s eyes. Yet if I speak of him my spirit feels, Through the thin veils of flesh, the gentle touch Of ghostly hands put out to comfort me: Hands that were Merow’s, tremulous with love. Ah! shall I speak to you of that calm dawn, When we two rode together toward Tours, Through woods but newly wakened into life? The spring was laughing with her April eyes, Her fingers decked each bough with tender bloom Of bud and blossom, and her feet awoke The daisies, primroses, and violets, While many birds, her swift-winged messengers, Shrilled, from each dripping bough, her hymns of love, In notes that chimed as sweet as rain on leaves; And swallows hawked for flies above each pool, That mirrored their light motion glassily. “Mile upon mile we rode, through wood and field, High pastures where the shepherds tended sheep, Counting the new-dropped lambs, and valleys green Where hamlets sheltered, smoke-wreaths from each house Curled upward slowly in the windless air, And sparrows quarrelled on the well-thatched roofs, Until at noon we found a sheltered spring, In a small hollow under aspen trees. Margined by reeds this mirror was, and gold With mallows in the reeds, and smooth grass lay About it, and the water bubbled clear Out of a fissure where grew many ferns. There, while the horses cropped the tender grass, We sate together, and no word was said. But on a sudden Merow took my hand In his, and looked at me with pleading eyes. I dropped my gaze, and silent plucked a flower. But ever closer drew that yearning face; And his hand grew more amorous, his mouth Closed upon mine; nor was I hard to win, Wearied with my desire and love for him. So the woods saw our wedlock, while the bees Went murmuring about the white-starred grass, At their sweet business, as we at ours; Till Merow spake: ‘Dear heart, the night creeps on, Hanging the distance with her silver mists, And the swift-darting swallows leave the pool Unrippled by their wings, while the quick bat Haunts their deserted ways in flickering haste: Come, let us journey onward now to Tours. Is the way weary that is urged by love, Love, who has shown us so delightful things?’ “He raised me to the saddle, kissed the foot He placed within the stirrup, and we rode, Regretting that green harbourage of joy Strown with its fragrant herbs. The moonlight played Between the branches swaying overhead, To throw fantastic shadows on the ground,