He came by unknown ways, and stood
At evening in the fading wood,
Which when the glowing hills were gone
Would as in a dream murmur on,
As he beside his camp-fire's glare
Sat as if in a vision there,
And felt the silence like a thing
In which his soul was functioning.
He was a poet maybe who
The world's impression dreamy drew
From his own heart in that strange air,
Like one who had been everywhere
And with the stars and fire-lit trees
Did blend a thousand memories,
Making that speck of light his home
Until the dewy dawn should come.
He well had seemed a phantom at
Some mystic work as lone he sat
Within his ring of charméd light,
Who might step out into the night,
And in a mischief-making mood
Perturb the starry solitude
Until his fire burnt out, and then
Might creep back to his camp again,
And wrapped within his blanket be
A thought-deserted entity.