There was no answer, so I sang the second verse and once more waited.
"On thy love's fire
My passion breathes,
Wind of Desire
Thy incense wreathes.
Greeting! To thee,
Or soon or late,
I, bond or free,
Am dedicate."
My passion breathes,
Wind of Desire
Thy incense wreathes.
Greeting! To thee,
Or soon or late,
I, bond or free,
Am dedicate."
And from somewhere far away in the recesses of that great cave came the answering strophe.
"O Love sublime
And undismayed,
No touch of Time
Upon thee laid.
Take that is thine;
Ended the quest!
I seek my shrine
Upon thy breast."
And undismayed,
No touch of Time
Upon thee laid.
Take that is thine;
Ended the quest!
I seek my shrine
Upon thy breast."
Then I laid down the harp.
At last a voice, the voice of Heliodore speaking whence I knew not, asked,
"Do the dead sing, or is it a living man? And if so, how is that man named?"
"A living man," I replied, "and he is named Olaf, son of Thorvald, or otherwise Michael. That name was given him in the cathedral at Byzantium, where first his eyes fell on a certain Heliodore, daughter of Magas the Egyptian, whom now he seeks."
