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A NORTHERN MÆNAD
. . . Died the leaves.
Sleep I slew for thee, and for thee
Drain’d the tear-wells dry. Then said I,
“I shall see him now!” not knowing,
Then, my speed was but thy spur.
(The Wind blows.) Hark! The sad Sea
Moans...Nay, winds do walk the tree-tops ...
Nay . . . what? what? . . . Footsteps! Feet running
Hither, hither at last! Belovéd,
Here (Heaven shield me!), I am here!
(It passes.) Gone!
Past!... Not seen!...Begone! I hate thee!—
Ah, no, no! . . . Yet see, yon dead leaves
Rise, and with a voice of piping
Dance behind thy dancing feet:
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