Out of the wood to the highway’s light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side. Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, As a garment worn of a wizard grim. He neighed at the gate in the morning dim. She heard no sound before her gate, Though very quiet was her bower. All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, With steadfast lips and veilèd eyne; But the lady was not there. On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal. Now God’s great grace assoil the soul That went out in the wood! THE GAOLER To be free, to be alone, Is a joy that I have not known. To a keeper who never sleeps I was given at the hour of birth By the governors of earth; And so well his watch he keeps, Though I leave no sleight untried, That he will not quit my side. How often, in bygone years, I have passioned, and sworn with tears That I loathed him and all his ways! He is silent; he smiles; he stays. When I close my eyes at night, His face is my latest sight. That dark face is mine own! He walks in my dreams at will; When I wake, he is with me still. To be free, to be alone, Is a joy that I have not known. I have cried to the winds, the sea, “Oh, help me, for ye are free!” I have thought to escape away, But his hand on my shoulder lay. From the hills and the lifting stars He has borne me back to bars; With the spell of my murmured name He has captived and kept me tame. It is whispered that he and I In a single hour shall die, As we were born, ’tis said, I shall lie in selfless peace; For him, too, is surcease, Rest, and a quiet bed. Self bindeth not the dead. Somewhat otherwise I believe; For a hope is astir in me That when consciousness one day fills With a splendour I scarce conceive,-- More than the winds and sea, More than the stars and hills,-- I indeed shall escape away Forever in that great day; I shall have no heed to give Unto aught that would call me back: He shall pass like the sunrise rack, He shall vanish; but I shall live! THE FIRST GUEST When the house is finished, Death enters. _Eastern Proverb._