"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux
The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes
PART ONE
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty
trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple
moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at
his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the
thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol
butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark
inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked
and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting
there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s
daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and
peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The
landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning
light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the
day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me
by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the
way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her
hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt
like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his
breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped
away to the west.
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