Niloiya spake again: 
“What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?”
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him,
Spoke on behalf of God:  “Behold,” said he,
“A little handful of unlovely dust
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when
He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm,
And with His breath awoke a living soul.

“Shall not the Fashioner command His work? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, ’Rise,
Go forth upon Mine errand,’ should reply,
’Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,—­I
love not scorning:  I beseech Thee, God,
Have me excused.’”

She answered him, “Tell on.” 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul: 
“What though I,—­like some goodly lama sunk
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease,
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not
A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers
That nod above her head,—­should lay me down,
And willingly forget this high behest,
There should be yet no tarrying.  Furthermore,
Though I went forth to cry against the doom,
Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down: 
It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth,
And it shall fall.  O! as for me, my life
Is bitter, looking onward, for I know
That in the fulness of the time shall dawn
That day:  my preaching shall not bring forth fruit,
Though for its sake I leave thee.  I shall float
Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate,
With thee and thine.” 
                         She answered:  “God forbid! 
For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep
They dread, and at the last will surely turn
To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive. 
And chide the waters back to their abyss,
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid:  I would not hear
Of riding on the waters:  look you, sir,
Better it were to die with you by hand
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me! 
Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet,
Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea.”

He saith again:  “I pray thee, woman, peace,
For thou wilt enter, when that day appears,
The fateful ship.”

“My lord,” quoth she, “I will. 
But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure
The Master calleth; for the time is long
That thou hast warned the world:  thou art but here
Three days; the song of welcoming but now
Is ended.  I behold thee, I am glad;
And wilt thou go again?  Husband, I say,
Be sure who ’t is that calleth; O, be sure,
Be sure.  My mother’s ghost came up last night,
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss,
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love,
And watchful of thee till the moon went down.