Came from the withered sun—a blight
Was on the land, and poisonous mist
Shrouded the rotting trees, unkissed
By any wind, and black crags glared
Like sightless, awful faces, spared
From death to live accursed for ay.
Dragging slow chains the hours went by.
We rode on, drunk and drugged with sleep,
Too deadly weary now to say
Whether our horses kept the way