 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
219
GUILT
The fat weeds, rooted in decay,
Make rank the autumn of the way:
There is no light, except the glow
Of fox-fire by the stagnant creek,
And one slim wisp, that, gliding low,
Hangs blue above the agaric,
That oozes from the rotting tree,
Where ghost-flowers point pale hands at me.
Make rank the autumn of the way:
There is no light, except the glow
Of fox-fire by the stagnant creek,
And one slim wisp, that, gliding low,
Hangs blue above the agaric,
That oozes from the rotting tree,
Where ghost-flowers point pale hands at me.
The forest drips and dreams of death,
That breathes on me its weedy breath,
Dark with the wailing wind and wet:
And all around me drops of rain
Sound weird as feet of phantoms met
Among the woods whose leaves complain:
And evermore some ancient fear,
Wind-like, keeps muttering at my ear.
That breathes on me its weedy breath,
Dark with the wailing wind and wet:
And all around me drops of rain
Sound weird as feet of phantoms met
Among the woods whose leaves complain:
And evermore some ancient fear,
Wind-like, keeps muttering at my ear.
And once, as when one takes his stand,
The storm thrust forth a sudden hand
And struck the wood: the trees around
Roared sidewise; and, like frightened hags,
Rent at their tattered robes; the ground
Rustled with wildness of their rags;
And overhead an owlet's cry,
Like some lost ghost, went shuddering by.
The storm thrust forth a sudden hand
And struck the wood: the trees around
Roared sidewise; and, like frightened hags,
Rent at their tattered robes; the ground
Rustled with wildness of their rags;
And overhead an owlet's cry,
Like some lost ghost, went shuddering by.
220
The place is cursed since that dark day
When black-masked men came here to slay:
The dead walk here since yonder swung
On yon bleak tree, that lent its aid,
An innocent life, that, wild of tongue,
In vain to man and Heaven prayed.
The place is haunted; earth and air
Seem burdened with a black despair.
When black-masked men came here to slay:
The dead walk here since yonder swung
On yon bleak tree, that lent its aid,
An innocent life, that, wild of tongue,
In vain to man and Heaven prayed.
The place is haunted; earth and air
Seem burdened with a black despair.
I should have spoken: 't was my lie
That slew him: I who let him die.—
But no!—it was God's part to see;
To give some sign; to let men know:
To point accusingly at me,
And bid them see who struck the blow:
To bid them know; to set them right—
Not leave it all to me to-night.
That slew him: I who let him die.—
But no!—it was God's part to see;
To give some sign; to let men know:
To point accusingly at me,
And bid them see who struck the blow:
To bid them know; to set them right—
Not leave it all to me to-night.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |