Page:Stevenson - Songs of Travel (1896).djvu/86

Rh With lowered axe, with backward head,

Late from this scene my labourer fled,

And with a ravelled tale to tell,

Returned. Some denizen of hell,

Dead man or disinvested god,

Had close behind him peered and trod,

And triumphed when he turned to flee.

How different fell the lines with me!

Whose eye explored the dim arcade

Impatient of the uncoming shade—

Shy elf, or dryad pale and cold,

Or mystic lingerer from of old:

Vainly. The fair and stately things,

Impassive as departed kings,

All still in the wood's stillness stood,

And dumb. The rooted multitude

Nodded and brooded, bloomed and dreamed,

Unmeaning, undivined. It seemed

No other art, no hope, they knew, 70