106
THE THREE VOICES.
And, sickened with excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;
Left him amid the wondering trees,
Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
"Tell me my fault," was all he said.
When, at high noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.
