Thus the dead man stayed in his grave, Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; There he stayed, were he fool or knave, Or honest seeker who had not found; While the Prince outside was prompt to crave Sleep on the ground. "If she watches, go bid her sleep; Bid her sleep, for the road is steep: He can sleep who holdeth her cheap, Sleep and wake and sleep again. Let him sow, one day he shall reap, Let him sow the grain. "When there blows a sweet garden rose, Let it bloom and wither if no man knows: But if one knows when the sweet thing blows, Knows, and lets it open and drop, If but a nettle his garden grows He hath earned the crop." Through his sleep the summons rang, Into his ears it sobbed and it sang. Slow he woke with a drowsy pang, Shook himself without much debate, Turned where he saw green branches hang, Started though late. For the black land was travelled o'er, He should see the grim land no more. A flowering country stretched before His face when the lovely day came back: He hugged the phial of Life he bore, And resumed his track. By willow courses he took his path, Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, Marked the fields green to aftermath, Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran, Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath, Yawned for a fellow-man. Up on the hills not a soul in view, In the vale not many nor few; Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new. It's O for a second maiden, at least, To bear the flagon, and taste it too, And flavor the feast. Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve; Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve. At length the water-bed took a curve, The deep river swept its bank-side bare; Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,-- Waters here, waters there. High above, and deep below, Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow, Like hill-torrents after the snow,-- Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife, Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,-- He must swim for his life. Which way?--which way?--his eyes grew dim With the dizzying whirl,--which way to swim? The thunderous downshoot deafened him; Half he choked in the lashing spray: Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,-- Which way?--which way? A flash of light, a shout from the strand: "This way,--this way; here lies the land!" His phial clutched in one drowning hand; He catches,--misses,--catches a rope; His feet slip on the slipping sand: Is there life?--is there hope? Just saved, without pulse or breath,-- Scarcely saved from the gulp of death; Laid where a willow shadoweth,-- Laid where a swelling turf is smooth. (O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth For all thy sweet youth.)