[From _The Spirit of the South_ (Boston, 1909)]
On the road, the lonely road,
Under the cold white moon,
Under the ragged trees, he strode;
He whistled, and shifted his heavy load;
Whistled a foolish tune.
There was a step timed with his own;
A figure that stooped and bowed;
A cold white blade that flashed 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 cock 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.