The Stab

On the road, the lonely road,
Under the cold white moon,
Under the ragged trees he strode;
He whistled and shifted his weary load—
Whistled a foolish tune.

There was a step timed with his own,
A figure that stooped and bowed—
A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone,
Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown—
And the moon went behind a cloud.

But the moon came out so broad and good,
The barn-fowl woke and crowed;
Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood,
And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood
That a dead man lay on the road.