“Live and die; by and by
The sun kills dark; I know not, I,
In what good fight mine arrows fly!”
Or at the gray hour, weary grown,
When curfew o’er the wold is blown,
He sees, as in a magic glass,
Some lost and lonely mountain-pass;
And lo! a sign of deathful rout
The mocking vine has wound about,—
An earth-fixed arrow by a spring,