III.
Down by the brook which separates the farms,
Is a great rock that leans above the stream,
And seems some monster of the Saurian day,
That coming to the water's edge to drink,
Was petrified, and so is leaning still.
Upon its back a week ago I sat,
And dreamed of Grace Bernard, and watched the brook;
And while I dreamed there came within the dream
A premonition of what yet would be.
The future's face, forever turned away,
Now seemed reverted, and its backward look
Was bent on me.
They took a faulty cast
Of Shakespeare's features after he was dead.
I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.
And this the premonition that was mine—
A perfect premonition full and clear—
And as I know the persons it concerns,
I cannot think it all improbable,
So write it down, that when the time has passed,
I may compare the facts with what is here.
And yet I scarcely should have written this,
Had I not seen his haunting face to-day—
That face which I had never seen before,
Except in my one dream upon the rock
That leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.
The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe,
May darkly understand that death is near,
Yet bravely marches on to destiny.
I too behold a shadow in my path;
I too go on, nor waver in my way.