The chaplain clasped his mailèd knee. "Nor need I more thy whine and thee! No time is left my sins to tell;

But look ye bind me, bind me well!"

ΙΟ

They bound him strong with leathern thong,
For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled,
Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;

Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,

And made the streams as the streams of hell.
All his thoughts as a river flowed,

Flowed aflame as fleet he rode,

Onward flowed to her abode,

Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.

20

(Viewless Death apace, apace,

Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known,

Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne

Under the kisses that make them mine!
Only of thee, of thee, my need!

Only to thee, to thee, I speed!"

The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn;

In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. 30

Far behind had the fight's din died;
The shuddering stars in the welkin wide
Crowded, crowded, to see him ride.
The beating hearts of the stars aloof
Kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof.

"What is the throb that thrills so sweet?
Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"

But his own strong pulse the fainter fell,
Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell,
The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet
Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood
Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood;
Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,—
But the viewless rider rode to win.
Out of the wood to the highway's light
Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright;
The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried,
And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew;
And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew;
And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue,
As a garment worn of a wizard grim.
He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.

She heard no sound before her gate,
Though very quiet was her bower.

All was as her hand had left it late:

The needle slept on the broidered vine,

50

Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower Her fashioning did wait.

On the couch lay something fair,
With steadfast lips and veilèd eyne;

60

But the lady was not there.

On the wings of shrift and prayer,
Pure as winds that winnow snow,

Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.

The burdened steed at the barred gate stood,
No whit the nearer to his goal.

Now God's great grace assoil the soul

That went out in the wood!

70

Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,

Another poor man sent for him,

And he began to grieve.

8

"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,

For people die and die";

And after cried he, "God forgive!
My body spake, not I!"

12

*Used by arrangement with the author's agents, A. P. Watt and Son, London, and with his American publishers, The Mac millan Company.

He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;

And the moth-hour went from the fields,

And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,

And leaves shook in the wind;

And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp

When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan

Stood upright on the floor.

"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died, While I slept on the chair";

He roused his horse out of his sleep,

And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,

By rocky lane and fen;

The sick man's wife opened the door;

"Father! you come again!"

"And is the poor man dead?" he cried.

"He died an hour ago."

The old priest Peter Gilligan

In grief swayed to and fro.

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20

24

28

"When you were gone, he turned and died

As merry as a bird."

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36

The old priest Peter Gilligan

He knelt him at the word.

"He who hath made the night of stars

For souls who tire and bleed,

Sent one of His great angels down

To help me in my need.

"He who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care,

Had pity on the least of things

Asleep upon a chair."

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48

William Butler Yeats.