"Have made me deem that thou wast dead.—
Why dost thou stare so overhead?—
What is it that thy soul doth dread?"
He said to her: "My own, my best,
To thee alone ... Witch! wilt thou wrest
This hour from me? ... shall be confessed
The thing that will not let me rest.
"It was at Hallowmas I spurred
Through woods wherein no wild thing stirred,
No sound of brook, no song of bird.