On that gray night of mournful drone,
A part from aught to hear, to see,
I dreamt not that from shires unknown
In gloom, alone,
A man was drawing near to me.
I’d no concern at anything,
No sense of coming pull-heart play;
Yet, under the silent outspreading
Of even’s wing
Where Otterham lay,
A man was riding up my way.
I thought of nobody–not of one,
But only of trifles–legends, ghosts–
Though, on the moorland dim and dun
That travellers shun
About these coasts,
The man had passed Tresparret Posts.
There was no light at all inland,
Only the seaward pharos-fire,
Nothing to let me understand
That hard at hand
By Hennett Byre
The man was getting nigh and nigher.
There was a rumble at the door,
A draught disturbed the drapery,
And but a minute passed before,
With gaze that bore
The man revealed himself to me.