THE WILL -O’ -THE -WISP
What the Will -o’ -the -wisp told me,
Floating hither and thither about the wounded shrubs
Scattered by the remorseless cutlass of a weary hunter,
With a prey in repose upon his neck,
Was:
‘do not fear, you, for I shall lead you’.
‘But fear?’ asked I, “what in Hector’s mutilated carcass
Has fear got to do with it—with anything
For that matter?’
‘All men must fear’, said the wisp,
‘that which transcends
Both their comprehension, and apprehension’.
Laying then as I did, in the wistful forest,
Adapting to the sounds which the crickets made,
Blocking out the rubbish which the wisp was said;
I called it rubbish alright, straight to his face,
And I assured it, with a stark face of my own,
Hostile to the thinnest of smile, I said;
‘Look here wisp, what makes you think yourself capable
Of leading a whole race of man, away from their own fears?’