Anguish at having left his charge And having failed his trust, At having flung his sword and targe To save his body’s dust. He clambered down the saving tree. “I am unclean!” he cried. “Christ died upon a tree for me, I used a tree to hide. “The hell-hounds bayed about the cross, And tore his clothes apart; But Christ was gold, and I am dross, And mud is in my heart.” He stood in anguish in the field; A little wind blew by, The dead leaves dropped, the great stars wheeled Their squadrons in the sky. * * * * * “Lord, I will try again,” he said, “Though all hell’s devils tear. This time I will not be afraid, And what is sent I’ll dare.” He set his face against the slope Until he topped the brae; Courage had healed his fear, and hope Had put his shame away. And then, far-off, a quest-note ran, A feathering hound replied: The hounds still drew the night for man Along that countryside. Then one by one the hell-hounds spoke, And still the horn made cheer; Then the full devil-chorus woke To fill the saint with fear. He knew that they were after him To hunt him till he fell; He turned and fled into the dim, And after him came hell. Over the stony wold he went, Through thorns and over quags; The bloodhounds cried upon the scent, They ran like rutting stags. And when the saint looked round, he saw Red eyes intently strained, The bright teeth in the grinning jaw, And running shapes that gained. Uphill, downhill, with failing breath, He ran to save his skin, Like one who knocked the door of death, Yet dared not enter in. Then water gurgled in the night, Dark water lay in front, The saint saw bubbles running bright; The huntsman cheered his hunt. The saint leaped far into the stream And struggled to the shore. The hunt died like an evil dream, A strange land lay before. He waded to a glittering land, With brighter light than ours; The water ran on silver sand By yellow water-flowers. The fishes nosed the stream to rings As petals floated by, The apples were like orbs of kings Against a glow of sky. On cool and steady stalks of green The outland flowers grew. The ghost-flower, silver like a queen, The queen-flower streakt with blue. The king-flower, crimson on his stalk, With frettings in his crown; The peace-flower, purple, from the chalk, The flower that loves the down. Lilies like thoughts, roses like words, In the sweet brain of June; The bees there, like the stock-dove birds, Breathed all the air with croon.