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THE THIRD VOICE.
113
And, sickened with excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead.
The whisper left him—like a breeze
Lost in the depths of leafy 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.
And when at Eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,
"Alack," he sighed, "what have I done?"
