"Wilt thou follow thy whim to win
My merry maid of the goblin kin?"
I swerved from my trail, for he haunted my ear
With his moaning jibe and his shadowy leer.
So by good hap as we sped it fell,
I fetched a circuit back for the well.
Like a spilth of spume on the crest of the bore
When the combing tides make in for shore,
That runner ran whose love was a wraith;