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I, I am he; seek not one more akin.

Some fraud, O stranger, weavest thou for me?

Against myself I weave it, if I weave.

Ah, thou hast mind to mock me in my woe!

'Tis at mine own I mock then, mocking thine.

Speak I with thee then as Orestes' self?

My very face thou see'st and know'st me not,

And yet but now, when thou didst see the lock

Shorn for my father's grave, and when thy quest

Was eager on the footprints I had made,

Even I, thy brother, shaped and sized as thou,

Fluttered thy spirit, as at sight of me!

Lay now this ringlet whence 'twas shorn, and judge,

And look upon this robe, thine own hands' work,

The shuttle-prints, the creature wrought thereon—

Refrain thyself, nor prudence lose in joy,

For well I wot, our kin are less than kind.

O thou that art unto our father's home

Love, grief and hope, for thee the tears ran down,