The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,
Watching intently from below the boughs,
While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,
Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.
His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.
Dinner began within with much to say.
Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.
Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.
Nor could her lover see her from the yew;
She was not there at table; she was ill,