On his doubtful path along.
Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark.
There’s a crash, and a splash, and a blind man’s cry,
But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky!
Firmilian.
Is it the echo of an inward voice,
Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep,
And send the cold blood choking to my heart?
I’ll shift my ground a little—
Chorus of Ignes Fatui.