Arthur Conan Doyle

Living English Poets


Master went a-hunting,
     When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
     We heard him gaily calling.
"Oh, master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!"
     A glint of steel from bit and heel,
     The chestnut cantered faster,
A red flash seen amid the green,
     And so good-by to master.

Master came from hunting,
     Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
     The mare was led before him.
"Oh, master, master, is it thus
     That you have come again to us?"
I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
     They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
     It matters not to master.


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