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.