Iii

The will to live goes from me. I have lain Dull and out-worn with some strange, subtle sickness. Who shall say That love is not the very root of this, O thou afar?

Yet she was near me, that eternal deep. O it is passing strange that love Can blow two ways across one soul. * * * * * And I was Aengus for a thousand years, And she, the ever-living, moved with me And strove amid the waves, and would not go.