The filled pail stood on a stone by the lip of the spring, But they had forgotten the pail. The spring was a cool Wavering mirror that showed them their white, blurred faces And made them wonder to see the faces so like And yet so silent and distant. Melora turned. “We ought to go back,” she said in a commonplace voice. “Not yet, Melora.” Something, as from the spring Rising, in silver smoke, in arras of silvers, Drifting around them, pushed by a light, slow wind. “Not yet Melora.” They sat on a log above. Melora’s eyes were still looking down at the spring. Her knees were hunched in her arms. “You’ll be going,” she said, Staring at the dimmed glass. “You’ll be going soon.” The silver came closer, soaking into his body, Soaking his flesh with bright, impalpable dust. He could smell her hair. It smelt of leaves and the wind.