The others followed, craning and alarmful,
To find the monster, if perhaps no friend,
At least unharmful.
To-day the bogle wags, a thing of jest
And open scorn; the very pipits mock it;
A jenny wren, I'm told, has built her nest
In one torn pocket!
Heart of my heart, and so prove aught of awe
That darkens on your path; the buckram rogue'll
Stand, when you face him, but a ghost of straw—