The poem
I heard a clash, and a cry, And a horseman fleeing the wood. The moon hid in a cloud. Deep in shadow I stood. 'Ugly work!' thought I, Holding my breath. 'Men must be cruel and proud, 'Jousting for death'.
With gusty glimmering shone The moon; and the wind blew colder. A man went over the hill, Bent to his horse's shoulder. 'Time for me to be gone'... Darkly I fled. Owls in the wood were shrill, And the moon sank red.