He passed the rivers running red And the mountains standing bare; At last the wold-land lay ahead, Un-yellowed by the share. All in the brown October time He clambered to the weald; The plum lay purpled into slime, The harvest lay in field. Trampled by many-footed rain The sunburnt corn lay dead; The myriad finches in the grain Rose bothering at his tread. The myriad finches took a sheer And settled back to food: A man was not a thing to fear In such a solitude. The hurrying of their wings died out, A silence took the hill; There was no dog, no bell, no shout, The windmill’s sails were still. The gate swung creaking on its hasp, The pear splashed from the tree, In the rotting apple’s heart the wasp Was drunken drowsily. The grass upon the cart-wheel ruts Had made the trackways dim; The rabbits ate and hopped their scuts, They had no fear of him. The sunset reddened in the west; The distant depth of blue Stretched out and dimmed; to twiggy nest The rooks in clamour drew. The oakwood in his mail of brass Bowed his great crest and stood; The pine-tree saw St. Withiel pass, His great bole blushed like blood. Then tree and wood alike were dim, Yet still St. Withiel strode; The only noise to comfort him Were his footsteps on the road. The crimson in the west was smoked, The west wind heaped the wrack, Each tree seemed like a murderer cloaked To stab him in the back. Darkness and desolation came To dog his footsteps there; The dead leaves rustling called his name, The death-moth brushed his hair. The murmurings of the wind fell still; He stood and stared around: He was alone upon the hill, On devil-haunted ground. What was the whitish thing which stood In front, with one arm raised, Like death a-grinning in a hood? The saint stood still and gazed. “What are you?” said St. Withiel. “Speak!” Not any answer came But the night-wind making darkness bleak, And the leaves that called his name. A glow shone on the whitish thing, It neither stirred nor spoke: In spite of faith, a shuddering Made the good saint to choke. He struck the whiteness with his staff-- It was a withered tree; An owl flew from it with a laugh, The darkness shook with glee. The darkness came all round him close And cackled in his ear; The midnight, full of life none knows, Was very full of fear. The darkness cackled in his heart That things of hell were there, That the startled rabbit played a part And the stoat’s leap did prepare-- Prepare the stage of night for blood, And the mind of night for death, For a spirit trembling in the mud In an agony for breath.