WATERFALLS


I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!

The Hermit crossed his brow.

`Say quick,' quoth he `I bid thee say -

What manner of man art thou?'

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woeful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns;

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;

I have strange power of speech;

That moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me:

To him my tale I teach.