The Pale Wanderer

I walked into a purple dell
between one hill's voluptuous swell
	and one's hard craggy face—
and there were fourteen head-sized stones
	scattered around that place,
that sang a song whose mournful tones       
grew loud and keen as I advanced,
and all throughout the vale they danced.
I came in close, and saw each rock
	had finely-lettered words upon it,								
written carefully with chalk.
I read them all, and saw they bore
	the fourteen lines of some strange sonnet
that no man had read before.
I picked one up and set it down
while all its fellows danced around,
and with a firm command I tried
to make the dancing stones subside
so I could place them in a row
and read the sonnet; to my woe								
no sooner had I one in place
	and went to fetch its rocky brother
but the first one off would race
	while I was grappling with the other—
finally, I brought them all
and made a tower, near as tall
as I was—and I read the song
that they had jumbled up so long.
And when I read it, no more will
infused the stones, and they were still.							

I left the valley wistfully,
because the rocks had given me
no knowledge that I had not known
and now were lifeless lumps of stone.
And as I traveled on, I came
into a forest old in name—
an ancient wood, beneath whose shade
there waited many a peaceful glade.

I found a clearing in the wood
and thought the air was sweet and good;							
the scent of the surrounding pine
was heady as an anodyne.
But then I caught the fainter whiff
	of something sweeter; sickly-sweet,
and as I took a deeper sniff
I frowned and vaguely wondered if
	I neared a heap of rotten meat.
Across the silent dell there stood
a bush of gnarled and knotted wood
among whose leaves of ocean-green								
lurked berries of incarnadine.
I neared the bush and underneath
	there lay a boy with hueless skin;
	his face was wan, his hair was thin,
his snowy forehead wore a wreath,
	and last my glancing eyes took in
the berries his right hand did hold.
I took his hand; his hand was cold,
and through his lips there blew no breath
but the unseen, silent wind of death.							

I walked up to a nearby tree
and, whispering an apology,
I broke a branch I thought looked tough,
broad, long, light, strong and straight enough
to serve me for a digging tool
to put to rest the dead young fool.
And so I dug a little pit
	beneath an old and angry tree,
and laid his body into it,
and laid the brown earth over it,							
	and soon his spirit came to me.

He was a thin, transparent child;
his face was wan; his hair was wild,
and placid as a cat, he smiled.
“Stranger, you have my thanks,” he said,
“for else among the sleepless dead
I would now wander without rest;
but into Earth's warm, welcoming breast
you have returned me; for this deed
I give you knowledge that you need—
there is a hill just east of here
	from which a cold spring flows,
and by that water, cool and clear
	there blooms a bright blue rose—
	amid three jagged rocks it grows,
and if you pluck it, it will burn
blue-hot in your hand and turn
into whatever you require—
indifferent what you most desire.
You may pursue it, or refuse,
but I give you the chance to choose;
go seek the rose upon the hill
and pluck it—or another will.”
I bowed my head, and calmly waited
as the spirit dissipated.

A half-mile east I found the hill
from which the rampant-splashing rill
ran clear, and by its side, among								
three craggy rocks, the blue rose sprung—
and slowly as a creeping fox
I plucked it from its cradling rocks.
And in my hand, the rose of blue
burned like the sun, and burning grew
	into one shapeless, azure flame;
then, settling into shape anew
	grew hard and gleaming, and became
a peerless sword whose glancing blade
was deadly as a heart betrayed.								
I held the sapphire-pommeled hilt
and, moaning, felt my spirit wilt,
because the wise and ancient hill
had given me a sword to kill.

Back down beneath the forest shade
I walked, and my blue-gleaming blade
	was heavy in my hand;
I passed a stone that marked a mile
on which a chiseled face did smile
and suddenly the sword of blue								
	grew weightless as a wand.
I heard the scrape as someone drew
a heavy sword from a heavy sheath,
and from the shadows underneath
the circling trees a man stepped forth
whose skin was tinted like the earth;
his beard was long, and antlers spread
their fearful branches from his head,
and looking on my face, he said:
“You trespass here, for every pine							
that branches in these woods is mine,
and now you pluck a rose to bring
a wicked and a withering thing
into my wood; well I too hold
a deadly sword whose name is old;
and I will fight you blade to blade
for bringing yours into my glade.
Here are my terms: if you are slain,
	that sword you hold that bluely glows
no more so withered shall remain								
	but shall become once more a rose,
and I shall plant it once again
beyond the touch of meddling men.
But if you lay me in the dust
into your hands will I entrust
my magic cloak of black ram's-wool,
that can make man invisible.
If you accept the terms, attack;
or else depart, and come not back.”
I nodded, bowed, and took my stance						
to start the great soul-severing dance.