And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 'twere for Christ's sweet sake; But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake.
Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure.
Nor why I kissed her soon and late, And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my heart like fire.
Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er mine had no power.
Or was it that your love at last, My soul so long had craved, From that sweet sin which held me fast At that last moment, saved?
The witch-elm shivers in the gale; The thorn-tree's top is bowed: The night is black with rain and hail, And mist and cloud.
The winds, upon the woods and fields, Are swords two fiends unsheathe, Two fiends, that snarl behind their shields And grind their teeth.
The foxfire, in the marshy place, As he rides on and on, Gleams, ghastly as a deadman's face, And then is gone.
The owl shrieks from the splintered pine Demonic ridicule: He hears the werewolf howl and whine And lap the pool.
Black bats beat blindly by his eyes, Like Death's own horrible hands: His quest leads under haunted skies To haunted lands.
He rides with fire upon his casque, And fire upon his spear, The roadway of his soul's set task, Without a fear.
Right steels the sinews of his steed, And tempers his straight sword: He rides the causeway of his creed Without a word.
No man shall make the iron pause In gauntlet and in thew: He rides the highway of his cause To die or do.
His purpose leads him, like a flame, Through forest and through fen, To castle walls of wrong and shame And blood-stained men.
Hope's are the lips that wind the horn Before the gates of lust: Though fifty dragons hiss him scorn, Still will he trust.
Strength's is the hand that thunders at The entrances of night: Though ten-score demons crush him flat Still will he fight.
Love's is the heart that finds a way To dungeons vast of sin: A thousand deaths may rise to slay, Still will he win.
I met him here at Ammendorf one spring. It was the end of April and the Harz, Treed to their ruin-crested summits, seemed One pulse of tender green and delicate gold, Beneath a heaven that was like the face Of girlhood waking into motherhood. Along the furrowed meadow, freshly ploughed, The patient oxen, loamy to the knees, Plodded or lowed or snuffed the fragrant soil; And in each thorn-tree hedge the wild bird sang A song to spring, full of its own wild self And soul, that heard the blossom-laden May's Heart beating like a star at break of day, As, kissing red the roses, she drew near, Her mouth's ripe rose all dewdrops and perfume. Here at this inn and underneath this tree We took our wine, the morning prismed in its Flame-crystalled gold.--A goodly vintage that! Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years. Rare! I remember! wine that spurred the blood, That brought the heart glad to the songful lip, And made the eyes unlatticed casements whence A man's true soul smiled, breezy as the blue. As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say, As that, old legends tell, which Necromance And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks Of antique make deep in the Kyffhäuser, Webbed, frosty gray, with salt-petre and mold, The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.--