Ii

That night there came from either hand A sense of change upon the land; A brooding stillness rustled through With creeping winds that hardly blew; A shadow from the looming west, A stir of leaves, a dim unrest; It seemed as if a spell had broke.

And then the poet turned and woke As from the darkness of a dream, And with a smile divine supreme Drew up his mantle fold on fold, And strung his lute with strings of gold, And bound the sandals to his feet, And strode into the darkling street.

Through crowds of murmuring men he hied, With working lips and swinging stride, And gleaming eyes and brow bent down; Out of the great gate of the town He hastened ever and passed on, And ere the darkness came, was gone, A mote beyond the western swell.

And then the storm arose and fell From wheeling shadows black with rain That drowned the hills and strode the plain; Round the grim mountain-heads it passed, Down whistling valleys blast on blast, Surged in upon the snapping trees, And swept the shuddering villages.

That night, when the fierce hours grew long, Once more the monarch, old and grey, Called for the poet and his song, And called in vain. But far away, By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred, The shepherds in their watches heard, Above the torrent's charge and clang, The cleaving chant of one that sang.