THE GNOME
Stumbling over the fallen leaves,
Sliding over the dew,
Staring up at the barley sheaves
That nod in the autumn wind,
We pushed and jostled the twilight thro’,
Shrilling to those behind.
And ere the night had grown to noon
We were under the Bloody Bowl,
And then uprose a huge pale moon
Behind the shivering trees ;
And so we found the Mother Troll
Well-skilled in mysteries.
She heard our coming, and rose to the door,
And we hurried eagerly through ;
We entered in with a breeze from the moor,
And stood by the fading pyre.
The air was smoky, the flame was blue,
And the face of the Troll like fire.
And so we gave her the heart of the slain,
That was slain for a dead man’s sake;
She chuckled low at each blackened vein
Gory and brown and torn ;
She wriggled her sides like a wounded snake
As she squeezed the blood into a horn.
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