Chapter 22 TWO STRINGS TO ONE BOW.

Over the grass we stepped unto it,

And God He knoweth how blithe we were,

Never a voice to bid us eschew it;

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever

On either margin, our songs all done,

We move apart, while she singeth ever

Taking the course of the stooping sun.

Jean Ingelow.