The Stab

On the road, the lonely road, Under the cold white moon, Under the ragged trees he strode; He whistled and shifted his weary load— Whistled a foolish tune. There was a step timed with his own, A figure that stooped and bowed— A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone, Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown— And the moon went behind a cloud. But the moon came out so broad and good, The barn-fowl woke and crowed; Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood, That a dead man lay on the road.

Collection: 
English
Will Wallace Harney

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