THIRD PART

AGAIN in her blue, blue mantle

Riding at Joseph's side,

She says, “I went to Cythera,

And woe betide!”

Her heart is a swinging cradle

That holds the perfect child,

But the shade on her forehead ill becomes

A mother mild.

So on with the slow, mean journey

In the pride of humility;

Till they halt at a cliff on the edge of the land

Over a sullen sea.

While Joseph pitches the sleep-tent

She goes far down to the shore

To where a man in a heaving boat

Waits with a lifted oar.