Madly I rode; nor once looked back, Before my face the world reeled, black With nightmare wind and rain. Witch-lights flared by me on the fen; And through the forest--was it then The eyes of wolves? or ghosts of men, That flamed and fled again? Still on I rode. My way was clear From that wild time when, spear to spear, Deep in the wind-torn wood, I met him!... Dead he lies beneath Your trysting oak. I clenched my teeth And rode. My wound scarce let me breathe, That filled my eyes with blood. And here I am. The blood may blind My eyesight still!... but I will find Thee through some inner eye! For God--He hath this thing in care!-- Yea! I will kiss again thy hair, Then tell thee of thy leman there, And smite thee dead--and die. THE DEMON LOVER The moon looks cold On the withered wold; The wind blows fierce and free: The thin snow sifts And stings and drifts, Blown by the haunted tree. The gnarled tree groans; And sighs and moans, And shudders to its roots: Is it the fear Of a footstep near? Or the owl in its top that hoots? Is it a gust Of thin snow-dust, The wind sweeps from the plain?-- Is it a breeze That wails and drees?-- Christ sain thee, Floramane! The moon hangs white In the winter night: The wind blows fierce and free: And Floramane Her place hath ta'en Beneath the haunted tree. What is it whines? What is it shines With owlet-eldritch light?-- With raven plume Forth from the gloom A man stalks, still and white. His face is dim; His sword swings grim; His long cloak flutters wide: His kiss falls bleak On her mouth and cheek, As he folds her to his side. What is it gleams? What is it streams So wan on Floramane?-- The moonlit breeze? Or his heart, she sees Through the stab, like a burning stain? A PRINCESS OF THULE In a kingdom of mist and moonlight, Or ever the world was known, Past leagues of unsailed water There reigned a king whose daughter Was fair as a starry stone. The Northern Lights were daylight, And day was twilight there: The king was wise and hoary, And his daughter, like the glory Of seven kingdoms, fair. The day was dim as moonlight; The night was misty gray, With slips of dull stars, bluer Where the princess met her wooer, A page like the month of May. His face was white as moonlight, His hair, a crumpled gold: Oh, she was wise as youth is, And he was young as truth is, And the king was old, was old. When day grew out of the moonlight, Across the misty wold, A-hunting or a-hawking They rode, forever mocking The good gray king and old.