He climbed to high places to escape himself:
He was sick in body and in mind …

And he stopped, and knelt, and washed his sword clean in a brook,
And looking on the spring-water reddened with a man, he cried out:
“Life is a horror and a madness:
Into what cranny can I creep, where there is nothing?
I fear death is not death: but more life.”

“Healing, where is it?”

“Shall I go back to my Mother's house?
Shall I bring her this ruined image of the youth that went from her?
Shall I repay her in base coin?
Or shall I take this sword and plunge it into my breast?”

He sank down moaning:
“Mother, mother! where are you?”

And those tender arms gathered him in,
And he thought he felt her warm breath on the back of his neck.