Now, therewithal, was come the night And thus his watch was well begun; And till the rising of the sun, Waking, he paced about the hall, And saw the hangings on the wall Fade into nought, and then grow white In patches by the pale moonlight, And then again fade utterly As still the moonbeams passed them by; Then in a while, with hope of day, Begin a little to grow grey, Until familiar things they grew, As up at last the great sun drew, And lit them with his yellow light At ending of another night Then right glad was he of the day, That passed with him in such-like way; For neither man nor beast came near, Nor any voices did he hear. And when again it drew to night Silent it passed, till first twilight Of morning came, and then he heard The feeble twittering of some bird, That, in that utter silence drear, Smote harsh and startling on his ear. Therewith came on that lonely day That passed him in no other way; And thus six days and nights went by And nothing strange had come anigh. And on that day he well-nigh deemed That all that story had been dreamed. Daylight and dark, and night and day, Passed ever in their wonted way; The wind played in the trees outside, The rooks from out the high trees cried; And all seemed natural, frank, and fair, With little signs of magic there. Yet neither could he quite forget That close with summer blossoms set, And fruit hung on trees blossoming, When all about was early spring. Yea, if all this by man were made, Strange was it that yet undecayed The food lay on the tables still Unchanged by man, that wine did fill The golden cups, yet bright and red. And all was so apparelléd For guests that came not, yet was all As though that servants filled the hall. So waxed and waned his hopes, and still He formed no wish for good or ill. And while he thought of this and that Upon his perch the falcon sat Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes Beholders of the hard-earned prize, Glancing around him restlessly, As though he knew the time drew nigh When this long watching should be done.