CATHLEEN. Old man, old man, He never closed a door
Unless one opened. I am desolate,
For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart
But I have still my faith; therefore be silent
For surely He does not forsake the world,
But stands before it modelling in the clay
And moulding there His image. Age by age
The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard
For its old, heavy, dull and shapeless ease;
But sometimes--though His hand is on it still--
It moves awry and demon hordes are born.

(PEASANTS cross themselves.)

Yet leave me now, for I am desolate,
I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder.

(She comes from the oratory door.)

Yet stay an instant. When we meet again
I may have grown forgetful. Oona, take
These two--the larder and the dairy keys.

(To the PORTER.)

But take you this. It opens the small room
Of herbs for medicine, of hellebore,
Of vervain, monkshood, plantain, and self-heal.
The book of cures is on the upper shelf.