The Path Through the Marsh
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There is a path through a marsh
That I must take to go home. . . .
Mallows, and thick black loam,
Alder, and bog-grass harsh,
And the marsh-pools glinting with lights
Of the sunset that stains the sky:
That is all to the eye,
Yet something is there that affrights.
Something which I never see
Though I feel its eyes on my back
As I cross on that narrow track,
Something that watches me.
It is never bittern, who thumps
At his hidden churn in the reeds.
It is never heron, who feeds
In the shallows beside old stumps,
Or spotted bull-frog, who eyes
Me passing his tiny lake
Where the great green bubbles break
And the veils of the bog-mists rise.
But deeper than long-drowned log
Something that never sleeps
Lies crouched in those oozy deeps,
Something as old as the bog. . . .
They say that there was a time
When Indians called this sod
"The place of the evil god,"
And prayed to the quivering slime.
They say that a Face would appear
In the mists that the night-winds brew,
And would ask for its ancient due:
One human heart a year.
All that is a long-closed book. . . .
But still, as I pass on that track,
I feel something's eyes on my back
And I never dare turn to look,
For fear that the mists should spread
And curdle to mouth and eyes
Malefic and old and wise,
Demanding Its terrible bread!
