<P PART I>
I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red
The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent horror of
And Echo there, whatever is asked her, answers
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was
His who had given me life - O father! O God! was it
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.
Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast
speculation had failed,
And ever he muttered and maddened, and ever
wanned with despair,
And out he walked when the wind like a broken
And the flying gold of the ruined woodlands drove
through the air.
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trailed, by a
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my
heart as I heard
The shrill-edged shriek of a . . .