* * *
They hanged Will
As Will said;
With one thrill
They choked him dead.
Jane walked the wold
Like a grey gander;
All grown old
She would wander.
She died soon:
At high-tide,
At full moon,
Jane died.
The brook chatters
As at first;
The farm it waters
Is accurst.
No man takes it,
Nothing grows there;
Blood straiks it,
A ghost goes there.
XXIII.
A hundred years ago they quarried for the stone here;
The carts came through the wood by the track still plain;
The drills show in the rock where the blasts were blown here,
They show up dark after rain.
Then the last cart of stone went away through the wood,
To build the great house for some April of a woman,
Till her beauty stood in stone, as her man's thought made it good,
And the dumb rock was made human.
The house still stands, but the April of its glory
Is gone, long since, with the beauty that has gone;
She wandered away west, it is an old sad story:
It is best not talked upon.