So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown
(By the light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone;
And with horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled,
And a fire-snake writhed where it fell; and at midnight the sky was red.
And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame,
I fell at mine enemy’s feet, and besought him to slay my shame;
But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were calm and great:
“You rave, or have dreamed,” he said; “I saw not your House of Hate.”
THE RIDDLE OF WRECK
Dark hemlocks, seventy and seven,