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Poem	TURN in, my lord, she said ; As it were the Father of Sin I have hated the Father of the Dead, The slayer of my kin ; By the Father of the Living led, Turn in, my lord, turn in. We were foes of old ; thy touch was cold, But mine is warm as life ; I have struggled and made thee loose thy hold, I have turned aside the knife. Despair itself in me was bold, I have striven, and won the strife. But that which conquered thee and rose Again to earth descends ; For the last time we have come to blows. And the long combat ends. The worst and secretest of foes, Be now my friend of friends.
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