SIXTH PART

SHE gave on the open heather

Beneath bare judgment stars,

And she dreamed of her children and Joseph,

And the isles, and her men, and her scars.

And she woke to distil the berries

The beggar had gathered at night,

Whence he drew the curious liquors

He held in delight.

He gave her no crown of flowers,

No child and no palfrey slow,

Only led her through harsh, hard places

Where strange winds blow.

She follows his restless wanderings

Till night when, by the fire's red stain,

Her face is bent in the bitter steam

That comes from the flowers of pain.

Then merciless and ruthless

He takes the flame-wild drops

To the town, and tries to sell them

With the market-crops.

So she follows the cruel journey

That ends not anywhere,

And dreams, as she stirs the mixing-pot,

She is brewing hope from despair.