What's this? a wood — What's that? one calleth,
Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread —
He hears men strive — then somewhat falleth!—
“Help me, neighbor — I'm hard bestead.”
The dream is strong — the voice he knoweth —
But when he would run, his feet are fast,
And death lies beyond, and no man goeth
To help, and he says the time is past.
His feet are held, and he shakes all over,—
Nay — they are free — he has found the place —
Green boughs are gather'd — what is't they cover?—
“I pray you, look on the dead man's face;
“You that stand by,” he saith, and cowers —
“Man, or Angel, to guard the dead
With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers,
And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead.—
“I dare not look. He wronged me never.
Men say we differ'd; they speak amiss:
This man and I were neighbors ever —
I would have ventured my life for his.
“But fast my feet were — fast with tangles —
Ay! words — but they were not sharp, I trow,
Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles —
O pitiful sight — I see thee now!—
“If we fell out,‘ twas but foul weather,
After long shining! O bitter cup,—
What — dead?— why, man, we play'd together —
Art dead — ere a friend can make it up?”