Like a spilth of spume on the crest of the bore
When the combing tides make in for shore,
That runner ran whose love was a wraith;
But the rider rode with revenge in his teeth.
Another league, and I touch the goal,--
The mystic rune on the poplar bole,--
When the dusky eyes and the raven hair
And the lithe brown arms shall greet me there.
I ran like a harrier on the trace
In the leash of that ghoul, and the wind gave chase.
A furlong now; I caught the gleam
Of the bubbling well with its tiny stream;
An arrowy burst; I cleared the beck;
And--the Kelpie rider bestrode my neck.
* * * * *
Dawn, the still red winter dawn;
I awoke on the plain; the wind was gone;--
All gracious and good as when God made
The living creatures, and none was afraid.
I stooped to drink of the wholesome spring
Under the poplars whispering:
Face to my face in that water clear--
The Kelpie rider's jabbering leer!
Ah, God! not me: I was never so!
Sainted Louis, who can know
The lords of life from the slaves of death?
What help avail the speeding breath
Of the spirit that knows not self's abode,--
When the soul is lost that knows not God?
I turned me home by St. Louis' Hall,
Where the red sun burns on the windows tall.
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