Sunday Poetry: The Highwayman, Part Three

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." -Joseph Roux

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The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  

A highwayman comes riding—

         Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.  

He whistles 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.