And her face was cast down in shadows, for she looked not at him, but at the dull lead casket, as pale as might be, and seemingly without hinge or keyhole, that lay cradled before her. And around her brow was a coronet of white poppies and on her feet were silent silken slippers like spider webs, and her music was single, a piping not of this earth, not merry, not sad, but calling, calling. And she sang: “Not in the flesh Not in the fire Not in action Is heart’s desire But come away For last is best I alone tender The Herb of Rest” And then the heart of the Childe was wrung indeed, for it was
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