Page:Choëphoroe (Murray 1923).djvu/31

Rh

Who mocks thy tribulation mocks mine own.

My heart half dares foretell that thou art he

Nay, when I face thee plain thou wilt not see!

Oh, seeing but that shorn tress of funeral hair

Thy soul took wings and seemed to hold me there;

Then peering in my steps thou knew'st them mine,

Thy brother's, moulded feet and head like thine.

Set the lock here, where it was cut. Behold

This cloak I wear, thy woven work of old,

The battened ridges and the broidered braid

Of lions

Hold! Ah, be not all dismayed

With joy! Our nearest is our deadliest foe.

O best beloved, O dreamed of long ago,

Seed of deliverance washed with tears as rain,

By thine own valour thou shalt build again

Our father's House! O lightener of mine eyes,

Four places in my heart, four sanctities,

Are thine. My father in thy face and mien

Yet living: thine the love that might have been

My mother's—whom I hate, most righteously—

And my poor sister's, fiercely doomed to die,