And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, I fell at mine enemy’s feet, and besought him to slay my shame; But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were calm and great: “You rave, or have dreamed,” he said; “I saw not your House of Hate.” THE RIDDLE OF WRECK Dark hemlocks, seventy and seven, High on the hill-slope sigh in dream, With plumy heads in heaven; They silver the sunbeam. One broken body of a tree, Stabbed through and slashed by lightning keen, Unsouled, and grim to see, Hangs o’er the hushed ravine. A hundred masts, a hundred more, Crowd close against the sunset-fires. Their late adventure o’er, They mingle with the spires. But one is lying prone, alone, Where gleaming gulls to seaward sweep, White sand of burial blown In sheets about its sleep. When lightning’s leashed, and sea is still, Ye sacrificial mysteries dread, Scapegoats of shore and hill, Your riddle may be read. THE RIDE TO THE LADY “Now since mine even is come at last,-- For I have been the sport of steel, And hot life ebbeth from me fast, And I in saddle roll and reel,-- Come bind me, bind me on my steed! Of fingering leech I have no need!” The chaplain clasped his mailèd knee. “Nor need I more thy whine and thee! No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!” They bound him strong with leathern thong, For the ride to the lady should be long. Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. (Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.) “Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine! Only of thee, of thee, my need! Only to thee, to thee, I speed!” The Cross flashed by at the highway’s turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. Far behind had the fight’s din died; The shuddering stars in the welkin wide Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. The beating hearts of the stars aloof Kept time to the beat of the horse’s hoof. “What is the throb that thrills so sweet? Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!” But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet Not alone with the started sweat. Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar’s hood; Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,-- But the viewless rider rode to win.