. . .For each hearth-light in the falling night
Cut clear through the growing gloam—
Of all brave things the best that brings
The weary Wanderer home.
But the waiting watchers spied me,
And met me as I ran;
And they saw the head of the chieftain,
And they hailed me man and man.
But through the heart-whole greetings
I felt the anxious gaze,
And over my brain like a pall was lain
The weight of the Doubter’s craze.{23}
And I begged them to tell me quickly—
For I quailed at the story stayed—
And I asked them if aught had happened
To the head of the kampong maid.
And there in the leafy gloaming—
Where the stars lit one by one,
They told me the tale at my homing—
And I felt the passions run—
Hate as the white-hot flame jet—
Shame as the burning bar—
Grief as the poisoned arrow&mdash. . . Read More