Father, I am right weary of four tongues:
A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,
A tongue that is too godly and too grave,
A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,
And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,
Of drowsy love and my captivity.

[SHAWN BRUIN _comes over to her and leads her to the settle._

SHAWN BRUIN.

Do not blame me: I often lie awake
Thinking that all things trouble your bright head--
How beautiful it is--such broad pale brows
Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!
Sit down beside me here--these are too old,
And have forgotten they were ever young.

MAIRE BRUIN.

O, you are the great door-post of this house,
And I the red nasturtium climbing up.

[_She takes_ SHAWN'S _hand but looks shyly at the priest and lets it
go._

FATHER HART.

Good daughter, take his hand--by love alone
God binds us to Himself and to the hearth