And if ever a faint, far murmur stirs,
Or the sound of a bell’s dim chime,
He moves, and fumbles at the hilt,
And mutters, “Is it time?”
A peasant once of old, ’tis said,
Lost in the labyrinth ways,
Chanced on the door and raised the bar,
And stared with a wild amaze.
And, “Is it time?” he heard the shape
In an awful voice demand;