By falls of scree, moss-mantled slippery rock, Wet bracken, drunken gurgling watercourses, He escaped limping at last, and broke the circuit Travelling down and down; but smooth descent Interrupted by new lakes and ridges, Sprawling unmortared walls of boulder granite, Marshes; one arm hung bruised where he had fallen, Blood welled a sticky trickle from his cheek, Mist gathering in his eye-brows ran full beads Down to his eyes, making them smart and blur. At last he blundered on some shepherd’s hut— He thought, the hut took pity and appeared— With mounds of peat and welcome track of wheels Which he now followed to a broad green road Running from right to left; but still at fault Whether he stood this side or that of the hill, The mist being still on all, with little pause He chose the easier way, the downward way. Legs were dog-tired already, only the road, The slow descent with some relief of guidance Maintained his shambling five miles to the hour Coloured with day dreams. Then a finger post Broke through the mist, pointing into his face, But when he stopped to read gave him no comfort. SEVENTEEN MILES TO—somewhere, God knows what! The paint was weathered to a mere acrostic Which cold unfocussed eyes could never read— But jerking a derisive thumb behind it Up a rough stream-wet path “THE WITCHES’ CAULDRON ONE MILE.” Only a mile For two good hours of stumbling steeplechase! There was a dead snake by some humorous hand Twined on the pointing finger; far away A bull roared hoarsely, but all else was mist. Then anger came upon him, in which heat He fell into deep thought and rhymes came strung Faster than speech might have kept pace with them. The Snake, the Bull! What laughter was it, ended His allegory and startled the graceful hare That secure in the mist came leaping down towards him? Witch in disguise, emissary of witches? Swiftly he takes a stone up, hurls it at her, Chases her, bawling childish angry threats; She screams. Now with red shame sorrow floods back Making his journey by twice three miles longer As though once revisiting the witches, Those unclean—it stood symbol in his mind For what, but what? He never wished her harm— She being a hare and having innocent eyes— It was her fault for blundering on him there. He never wished her harm, she should have known His angry fit, frustration, weariness Breaking a gentler mood. With slackening steps He once more takes the homeward road, that is, If it does lead home; it’s making uphill now And narrowing sadly. That fool finger-post Had only snakes to brag about and witches, And the bull roared no very helpful threat. THE FEATHER BED