From "A West Shire Lad".


 Now rinds of flames burn out to black,
   And lights that flick are low:
 Square back and arms, lift up your pack,
   And leave your friends and go.

 Oh do not fear, man, nought's to dread,
   Look not to left nor right:
 In all the road sans end you tread
   There's nought there but the night.

                                -- A.E. House Man