I MET AT EVE

Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,

Of thorn-stocks nine yards high.
With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun

And your head dan-dangling by :

And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,

From a stone-cold pantry shelf,
Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,

Till you are cooked yourself!

WALTER DE LA MARE

I MET AT EVE
I MET at eve the Prince of Sleep,
His was a still and lovely face, 10
He wandered through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.
His garb was grey of lavender,
About his brows a poppy-wreath
Burned like dim coals, and everywhere
The air was sweeter for his breath.
His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
Seemed letters of his lovely name. ao
His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,
And witch the moon with muffled calls.
Upswelling from his shadowy springs
Sweet waters shake a trembling sound,
There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings,
There hath his web the silkworm wound.