Soothe her and comfort her and let her hear No harshness but the mumbling peaceful sound The fed bee grumbles to his honey-bags In the red foxglove’s throat. Oh, if you are Anything but lost shadows, go to her!”

Melora did not make such words for herself, Being unable, and too much in pain. If wood-things were beside her, she did not see them, But only a lamp, and hands. The pains came hard now, A fist that hardly opened before it shut, A red stair mounting into an ultimate Flurry of misty conflict, when it seemed As if she fought against the earth itself For mere breath and something other than mere breath. She heard the roar of the tunnel, drowned in earth. Earth and its expulsive waters, tearing her, being born. Then it was yellow silence and a weak crying.