THE TRAVELLER BENIGHTED
On through the quiet country-side
The road runs small and white,
The trees stand still on either side
As if to watch me there—
But stilled, stilled is the air
At the oncome of night.
And see, behind my back the moon
Eyes me with steadfast gaze;
I did not think she’d spill so soon
Her silver in the brook—
But calm, calm is her look
As she mounts through the haze.
As though I’d shed it like a husk,
My body casts no shade;
I walk suspended in the dusk
Just as a spirit might,
For yet, yet there is light
In the west—but ’twill fade
Yes, fade it will, and I shall trace
My bobbing shadow spread
Before me on the whitened face
Of the road where I must go.
And then, then I shall know
What it is that I dread.