Stood Oswald, cowled and silent. Hour by hour
He gazed across the sea, which nothing shadowed,
Save where--now dim, now white--a lonely sail
Hung, restless, o'er a fisher's barren toil.
Yet Oswald saw nor sail nor moon nor sea:
His heart kept vigil by the little house
Wherein the stranger slumbered; and it seemed
His life, by some strange power within him stayed,
Awaited the unlatching of the door.
But now, within the hut, the sleeper dreamt