Now Watkin hears the voice and weeps for bliss, The voice that warned "Creature, the time is come." Merciful Death, was it Death, all his desire? Promised of Heaven, and speedy? O Death, come! Only for one thought must he make provision, For honest Prinny, for old bob-tail Prinny. Another master? Where? These hillside crofters Were spiteful to their beasts and mercenary. Prinny to such? No, Prinny too must die. By his own hand, then? Murder! By what other? No human hand should touch the sacrifice, No human hand; God's hand then, through his temporal minister. Three times has Watkin in the morning early When not a soul was rising, left his flock, Come to the Minister's house through the cold mist, Clicked at the latch and slowly moved the gate, Faltered, held back and dared not enter in. "Not this time, Prinny, we'll not rouse them yet, To-morrow, surely, for our death is tokened, My death and your death with small interval. We meet in fields beyond; be sure of it, Prinny!" On the next night The busy Gnat, swollen to giant size, Pent-up within the skull, knew certainly, As a bird knows in the egg, his hour was come. The thrice repeated call had given him summons ... He must out, crack the shell, out, out! He strains, claps his wings, arches his back, Drives in his talons, out! out! In the white anguish of this travail, Watkin Hurls off his blankets, tears an axe from the nail Batters the bed, hews table, splits the floor, Hears Prinny whine at his feet, leaps, strikes again, Strikes, yammering. At that instant with a clatter Noise of a bursting dam, a toppling wall, Out flies the new-born creature from his mouth And humming fearsomely like a huge engine, Rackets about the room, smites the unseen Glass of half-open windows, reels, recovers, Soars out into the meadows, and is gone. Silence prolonged to an age. Watkin still lives? The hour of travail by the voice foretold Brought no last throbbings of the dying Body In child-birth of the Soul. Watkin still lives. Labourer Watkin delves in the wet fields. Did an old shepherd die that night with Prinny, Die weeping with his head on the outraged corpse? Oh, he's forgotten. A dead dream, a cloud. Labourer Watkin delves, drowsily, numbly, His harsh spade grates among the buried stones. THE PATCHWORK BONNET Across the room my silent love I throw, Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight, Your young stern profile and industrious fingers Displayed against the blind in a shadow show, To Dinda's grave delight. The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam: The patchwork pieces cry for joy together, O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head, Fulfilment of their dream.