Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PILGRIM, by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PILGRIM, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Shall we help you with your bundle
Last Line: In sight of home!
Alternate Author Name(s): Ramal, Walter; De La Mare, Walter


'Shall we help you with your bundle,
You old grey man?
Over hill and dell and meadow
Lighter than an owlet's shadow
We will waft it through the air,
Through blue regions shrill and bare
So you may in comfort fare --
Shall we help you with your bundle,
You old grey man?'

The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes
And saw three Fiends in the skies,
Stooping o'er that lonely place
Evil in form and face.

'Nay', he answered, 'tempt me not,
O three wild Fiends!
Long the journey I am wending,
Yet the longest hath an ending;
I must bear my bundle alone
Till the day be done.'

The Fiends stared down with leaden eye,
Fanning the chill air duskily,
'Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry: --

'Shall we smooth the path before you,
Weary old man?
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it o'er with painted flowers,
Lure bright birds to sing and flit
In the honeyed airs of it?
Shall we smooth the path before you,
Sad old man?'

'O, 'tis better silence,
Ye three wild Fiends!
Footsore am I, faint and weary,
Dark the way, forlorn and dreary,
Even so, at peace I be,
Nor want for ghostly company:
O, 'tis better silence,
Ye three wild Fiends!'

It seemed a cloud obscured the air,
Lightning quivered in the gloom,
And a faint voice of thunder spake
Far in the high hill-hollows -- 'Come!'
Then, half in fury, half in dread,
The Fiends drew closer down, and said:

'Nay, thou foolish fond old man,
Hearken awhile!
Frozen, scorched, with ice and heat,
Tarry now, sit down and eat:
Juice of purple grape shall be
Joy and solace unto thee.

'Music of tambour, wire and wind,
Ease shall bring to heart and mind;
Wonderful sweet mouths shall sigh
Languishing and lullaby;

Turn then! Curse the dream that lures thee;
Turn thee, ere too late it be,
Lest thy three true Friends grow weary
Of comforting thee!'

The Pilgrim crouches terrified
At stooping hood, and glassy face,
Gloating, evil, side by side,
Terror and hate brood o'er the place;
He flings his withered hands on high
With a bitter, breaking cry: --

'Pity have, and leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild Fiends!
If I lay me down in slumber
Dark with death that sleep shall be;
All your fruits are fruits of evil --
Wrath and hate and treachery.
On mine eyes the darkness thickens,
Blind, in dread, I stumble on,
Cheat me not with false beguiling --
Beseech ye, begone!'

And even as he spake, on high
Arrows of sunlight pierced the sky.
Bright streamed the rain. O'er burning snow
From hill to hill a wondrous Bow
Of colour and fire trembled in air,
Painting its heavenly beauty there.

Wild flung each Fiend a batlike hood
Against that flaming light, and stood
Beating the windless rain and then
Rose heavy and slow with cowering head,
Circled in company again,
And into darkness fled.

Marvellous sweet it was to hear
The waters gushing loud and clear;
Marvellous happy it was to be
Alone, and yet not solitary;
Oh, out of terror and dark to come
In sight of home!





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