The gold of his hair for an aureole round and above him,
Seeing which, called his adorers aloud, thanking Heaven
That sent down an angel to sing for them, taking their homage;—
While this came to pass in the city, one marked it, and harbored
A purpose which followed endlessly on, like his shadow.
Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clambering stealthily
Slips by the stones to an opening, came the assassin,
And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the Saxon hair dabbled
With red, and the brave voice smitten to death in his bosom.
Now this was the end of the hate and the striving and singing.