The Fugitive

When she returned to the clouded land, She held sweet flowers in her hand; Her eyes were bright With a beaming light That none could understand.

Said they: Where, sister, hast thou been? What hidden glory hast thou seen? What magic sod Has thy white foot trod; What song-filled groves of green?

Said she: I followed across the plain To the gates of Love, to the gates of Pain: By one, by two, All the rest went through: But I came back again....