III
What's that, who's that comes breaking on my sleep
With groans? What, father, you? (The very look,
The same smudged foolish face like an old sheep
Even after twenty years scarcely mistook.)
Speak, Father, speak; that night what came to you
Vanished in wrath or terror? Tell the tale;
Your beer left still in mug, your half-made shoe
On last, your turnip ticking on its nail!
"Son, it was Death. I have not stirred a foot
Out of this horrible dwelling all these years,
But planted like a kail I have taken root
Under the stairs, my son, under the stairs.
"Do not avenge me, Henry. Let all slide.
I grudge your death. See, do not touch the snake.
A cowardice taints you from your father's side
And a coward's lusts, but curb them, for my sake!
"Back to your grave, back Father, lest she wake!"