XXII.
There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon,
And lit me to my home of youth again,
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft at noon,
By the fount’s flashing burst, my head had lain
In gentle sleep. But now I pass’d as one
That may not pause where wood-streams whispering run,
Or light sprays tremble to a bird’s wild strain;
Because th’ avenger’s voice is in the wind,
The foe’s quick, rustling step close on the leaves behind.