Who spurs on the road when the day is done,
Through night, through wind? A father and son.
The father's arms and his cloak enfold
The youngster, to keep him snug from cold.

"My son, why huddle and hide your eyes?"
"The King of Darkwood, see him rise
--You don't see, father? --all sheeted, crowned?"
"Mist, my son. From the marshy ground."

Dear little fellow, come with me.
We've games to be playing, just you'll see.
I've pretty gardens along the foam,
Gold to wear in my mother's home.

"O father, father! you still can't hear
The King of Darkwood, coaxing near?"

Easy, my youngster. Easy there!
In twigs a-wither, a hiss of air."

Fine little fellow, of we go?
I've three tall daughters to curtsy low.
The take hands, dancing the whole night through.
They'll dance you and dandle and rock-a-by you.
"O father, father! you still can't see
His daughters there in the dark, all three?"
"Son, what I see is how they sway,
The wayside willows so old and grey."

I'm in love with your flesh and its human glow.
And if you're unwilling, I'll see that you go.
"O father, father! it hurts, his touch
--The King of Darkwood! --hurts so much!"

The father shudders, the father spurs;
The boy in his arms half moans, half stirs.
Home, under stress and strain, they sped.
There in his arms the boy lay dead.