Third Part

AGAIN in her blue, blue mantle Riding at Joseph's side, She says, "I went to Cythera, And woe betide!"

Her heart is a swinging cradle That holds the perfect child, But the shade on her forehead ill becomes A mother mild.

So on with the slow, mean journey In the pride of humility; Till they halt at a cliff on the edge of the land Over a sullen sea.

While Joseph pitches the sleep-tent She goes far down to the shore To where a man in a heaving boat Waits with a lifted oar.