Wayside lute / Lizette Woodworth Reese [electronic text]

THE HERETICS

NOW, who are these out in the night, Blown naked in the worrying gust? Gray mist across your candlelight, Mean shapes along the unresting dust?

These are the Hunted Ones you see, Who tireless speed from land to land; Freemen who would that you were free; Hark to the Hunters close at hand!

A halt, a call, an edgèd cry — But not a foot stirs on the floor; "Follow and dream; follow and die!" — Untouched the latch upon the door.

Mean shapes from all the dark apart, Gray mist across your candlelight, We stir, we shake you to the heart; And then are gone into the night.

Out in your orchards in the sun, You count the rosy harvests nigh; A gasping few, and one by one, Without the walls we pass you by.

Thin laughter dwindles down the grass; You jeer, though scarce you know at what; You point gross fingers where we pass; The dust dies out; we are forgot.

We come and go; we come again; Nor loaf, nor cloak your dole, nor shed Wherein to house us from the rain; Nor of one bough the apples red.

A hundred towns to east, to west, Scatter our ashes to the wind; Ever we speed upon the quest; Ever the Hunters ride behind.

Thin laughter, cackle or grow still; Cold doors, unbar or shut us out; We are of them that do God's will; The Hunt shall end in wreck and rout!