Like deadly grave-robed figures, one by one,
A cold procession passed before my gaze,
The high bold-handed evils he had done
To me, to mine, the ruin of our days.
A cold procession passed before my gaze,
The high bold-handed evils he had done
To me, to mine, the ruin of our days.
I felt my hand close on my unsheathed sword—
"The prayers of all your yesterdays" (I cried)
"Must gain you pardon of the gracious Lord!"
And he, unshriven, by my hot hate had died—
"The prayers of all your yesterdays" (I cried)
"Must gain you pardon of the gracious Lord!"
And he, unshriven, by my hot hate had died—
Had I not heard wild cries without my door,
The acclamations of the multitude.
My enemy stirred not in his stupor
I drew the bedshades close, and waiting stood.
The acclamations of the multitude.
My enemy stirred not in his stupor
I drew the bedshades close, and waiting stood.
Then they were all about me in the place,
Strange, furious faces, peering everywhere
Seeking the hated stranger, whose foul trace
Had left their village desolate as here.
Strange, furious faces, peering everywhere
Seeking the hated stranger, whose foul trace
Had left their village desolate as here.
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