Then watch him dying there, like a spider in his lair,

 With a “Wolf, wolf, wolf!” at my door.

 The great white morning sun shall walk the earth again,

 And the children return to my door,

 I shall hear their merry laugh, and forget my buried dwarf,

 As a tale that is told at the door.

 Far from the quiet woods the gaunt red wolf shall flee,

 As a cur that is stoned from the door;

 And God’s great peace come back along the lonely track,

 To fill the golden year at my door.

44 

44

 

The Faithless Lover

I

 O Life, dear Life, in this fair house

O Life,

O

 Long since did I, it seems to me,

 In some mysterious doleful way

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