So then I say, to teach myself to be
true--'Look now, Criseyde, yonder fine, many-hearted poplar--that is
Paris; and all that bank of marriage-ivy--that is marriageable Helen,
green and cold; and the waterless fountain--that truly is Diomed; and
the faded flower that nods in shadow, why, that must be me, even me,
Criseyde!'"
"And this thick rosemary-bush that smells of exile, who, then, is
that?" I said.
She looked deep into the shadow of the cypresses. "That," she said, "I
think I have forgot again."
"But," I said, "Diomed, now, was he quite so silent--not one trickle
of persuasion?"
"Why," she said, "I think 'twas the fountain was Diomed: I know not.
And as for persuasion; he was a man forked, vain, and absolute as all.
Let the waterless stone be sudden Diomed--you will confuse my wits,
Mariner; where, then, were I?" She smiled, stooping lower. "You have
voyaged far?" she said.
"From childhood to this side regret," I answered rather sadly.
"'Tis a sad end to a sweet tale," she said, "were it but truly told.
But yet, and yet, and yet--you may return, and life heals every, every
wound.
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