Made stumbling, but of flowers were found
None save the sanguined poppy’s hue
Between still sleep and death that grew.
The Pilgrim stayed for sleep nor rest,
As bent upon some hidden quest;
Nor turned he from his painful way
Where folk made feast and holiday
Beneath fair vines and fruited trees,
As pipe, and dance, and song them please.
He seemed the world of men to shun,