The Whisperers

The Whisperers written by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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       As beneath the moon I walked,
       Dog-at-heel, my shadow stalked,
       Keeping ghostly company:
       And as we went gallantly
       Down the fell-road, dusty-white,
       Round us in the windy night
       Bracken, rushes, bent and heather
       Whispered ceaselessly together:
       "Would he ever journey more,
       Ever stride so carelessly:
       If he knew what lies before,
       And could see what we can see?"

       As I listened, cold with dread,
       Every hair upon my head
       Strained to hear them talk of me,
       Whispering, whispering ceaselessly:
       "Folly's fool the man must be,
       Surely, since, though where he goes
       He knows not, his shadow knows:
       And his secret shadow never
       Utters warning words, or ever
       Seeks to save him from his fate,
       Reckless, blindfold, and unknown,
       Till death tells him all, too late,
       And his shadow walks alone."

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