One silent of foot, hooded, and hollow of visage,
Pause, with secret eyes, to peer out at thee.
He is the Ancient Tapster of this Hostel,
To him at length even we all keys must resign;
And if he beckon, Stranger, thou too must follow—
Love and all peace be thine.
A SIGN
HOW shall I know when the end of things is coming?
The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;
The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;