Even by this fireside, mother...

Even by this fireside, mother,

My heart is failing.

To-night across the down,

Whistling and jolly,

I sauntered out from town

With my stick of holly.

Bounteous and cool from sea

The wind was blowing,

Cloud shadows under the moon

Coming and going.

I sang old roaring songs,

Ran and leaped quick,

And turned home by St. Swithin's

Twirling my stick.

And there as I was passing

The churchyard gate

An old man stopped me, “Dicky,

You're walking late.”

I did not know the man,

I grew afeared

At his lean lolling jaw,

His spreading beard.

His garments old and musty,

Of antique cut,

His body very lean and bony,

His eyes tight shut.

Oh, even to tell it now

My courage ebbs...

His face was clay, mother,

His beard, cobwebs.

In that long horrid pause

“Good-night,” he said,

Entered and clicked the gate,

“Each to his bed.”

Do not sigh or fear, Dicky,

How is it right

To grudge the dead their ghostly dark

And wan moonlight?

We have the glorious sun,

Lamp and fireside.

Grudge not the dead their moonshine

When abroad they ride.