Again the earth with my delight in war, And vex my body with the restless loves That my youth knew. A life of war and love; Passions that shake the soul; bright, ruddy flames Devouring speedily this fretful flesh: A life of clamour, shouting, dust and heat, The tumult of the battle, ringing shields, The hiss of sudden arrows through the air, And drumming hoofs of horses in the mad Thunderous fury of the charge, that breaks Baffled, like waves upon a wall of steel: Give me again that life of ecstasy And I shall leave your heaven to its sleep.” She wrapped her cloak about her, close; and frowned Once more upon the flame. He spoke again: “When I was long-haired, too, the windy joys Of battle wrought a madness in my blood; Yet never night came but mine eyes would close On sleep, that seemed a mother to my soul, In trustfulness as quiet as a child’s. Hast thou no need of quiet, of a sleep That stretches out its wings and shrouds thee close, Healing thee of all wounds, and wards the day Off from thine eyelids? There is peace in God, If we might find him; but the way is far And difficult of travel for our feet, Leading through all the sounding ways of life And silent ways of death, through whose domain Each blind soul voyages in loneliness: Nor ever has a man with undimmed eyes, Save he whom ravens fed, and he whose voice Sounded the note of triumph, even in Hell, While the dead flocked unto him, and the gates Were lifted up for gladness, travelled it. Wide regions filled with spirits numberless——” But Brunhild turned on him: “I see them now, Though Death has not yet claimed me, in that flame; And wouldst thou have me go to them in fear, With loosened knees and face untaught to frown? Would they for all my weeping pity me? Yea, there is Fredegonde with mocking eyes: I seem to see my life through smoking blood That she and I have spilt in quarrelling. Shall we too fill, with greater clamour, Hell; Battling like eagles through the gloomy air, That trembles at the passion of our wings? Go from me: I repent not anything.” “Nay, yet I shall not go; but rest and hear Thy story in the form it leaves thy lips; Nor question thee, but bless thee and depart. For surely all thy soul yearns backward now To half remembered days, that fill the flame, Even as you say, with floating memories, Purged of the dross, that was a part of them, Nought now but soft gold of thy plastic dreams, Wrought to what shape you will: so have I heard That we judge others and judge not ourselves By a stern measure; and therefore we fail Of perfect justice, which is charity.” “Ye, who are sheltered from the world, O priest,” Spake Brunhild, mocking him, “have time to pause Ere your minds fix the measure of pure truth