'Open the Gate! The dawn is very near at hand. My eyes are heavy, I have wandered late, And trod the white road from a distant land That stretches 'neath the stars. Open the Gate!' 'What good is it? I set the heavy bars up long ago. The lock is rusted; I have lost the key. How should I open to my overthrow? O Youth's love, what have I to do with thee?' 'Open the Gate! The night is passing-thou mayest see it pass. Behold, the upland hills are tipped with fire! The dawn-winds blow across the upland grass. The cocks crow. Open thou, my heart's desire!' 'That will not I. This is no true daybreak my sad eyes see. How shall I open? Broadens not one whit The white light that so often mockèd me. How shall I open to a lying cry? What good is it?' 'Open the Gate! The night is truly ended, O my dear! My feet are bleeding! I am sick to death! Open the Gate! God's own red sun is here! The shadows flee, and the land quickeneth. O Love, for Pity, open thou the Gate!' Nay then - for ruth I open. I have little love for thee, And I am sorely changèd since our youth, And there is little beauty left in me . . . For Pity have I opened . . . but, in truth, I. . . had . . . not . . . thought . . . with Pity . . . Love might be!'