The Fugitive

When she returned to the clouded land,

She held sweet flowers in her hand;

Her eyes were bright

With a beaming light

That none could understand.

Said they: Where, sister, hast thou been?

What hidden glory hast thou seen?

What magic sod

Has thy white foot trod;

What song-filled groves of green?

Said she: I followed across the plain

To the gates of Love, to the gates of Pain:

By one, by two,

All the rest went through:

But I came back again....