Not alone with the started sweat.
Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood
Arched its cowl like a black friar’s hood;
Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,—
But the viewless rider rode to win.
Out of the wood to the highway’s light
Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright;
The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried,
And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.
Fast, and fast, by the road he knew;