IX.

I know not if for days many or few Pathless we thrid the wood; for never sun, Its sylvan-traceried windows peeping through, Mottled with brighter green the mosses dun, Or meted with moving shadows Time the shade. No life was there—not even a spider spun. At length we came into a sky-roofed glade, An open level, in a circle shut By solemn trees that stood aside and made Large room and lonely for a little hut By grassy sweeps wide-margined from the wood. 'Twas built of saplings old, that had been cut When those great trees no larger by them stood; Thick with an ancient moss, it seemed to have grown Thus from the old brown earth, a covert rude, Half-house, half-grave; half-lifted up, half-prone. To its low door my brother led me. "There Is thy first school," he said; "there be thou shown Thy pictured alphabet. Wake a mind of prayer, And praying enter." "But wilt thou not come, Brother?" I said. "No," said he. And I, "Where Then shall I find thee? Thou wilt not leave me dumb, And a whole world of thoughts unuttered?" With half-sad smile and dewy eyes, and some Conflicting motions of his kingly head, He pointed to the open-standing door. I entered: inward, lo, my shadow led! I turned: his countenance shone like lightning hoar! Then slow he turned from me, and parted slow, Like one unwilling, whom I should see no more; With voice nor hand said, Farewell, I must go! But drew the clinging door hard to the post. No dry leaves rustled 'neath his going; no Footfalls came back from the departing ghost. He was no more. I laid me down and wept; I dared not follow him, restrained the most By fear I should not see him if I leapt Out after him with cries of pleading love. Close to the wall, in hopeless loss, I crept; There cool sleep came, God's shadow, from above.