I heard the voice of the Guide, mixed with theirs and not unlike them, singing this song: ‘I know not, I, What the men together say, How lovers, lovers die And youth passes away. ‘Cannot understand Love that mortal bears For native, native land —All lands are theirs. ‘Why at grave they grieve For one voice and face, And not, and not receive Another in its place. ‘I, above the cone Of the circling night Flying, never have known More or lesser light. ‘Sorrow it is they call This cup: whence my lip, Woe’s me, never in all My endless days must sip.’
