For to me again
It reaches, and past retrieve
Is wound in the toils I weave; 70

XV

And must follow as I require,
As befits a thrall,
Bringing flesh and all,
Essence and earth-attire
To the source of the tractile fire:

XVI

Till the house called hers, not mine,
With a growing weight
Seems to suffocate
If she break not its leaden line
And escape from its close confine. 80

XVII

Out of doors into the night!
On to the maze
Of the wild wood-ways,
Not turning to left nor right
>From the pathway, blind with sight--

XVIII