On St. John's Eve.
'Twas nearing morn
When I turned me home; and a wizen'd gnome,
A Nis, all gray with flailing the corn,
And strong with the scent of byre and barn,
Scowled at me under the haunted thorn,
On St. John's Eve.
To end it all,
As I passed the hill by the ruined mill,
The hill rose up on pillars tall,