Then an old woman advanced clamouring upon him,
And he lifted his sword against her,
But his hand dropped.

She had grey hair over the temples,
She had lines about the mouth,
There was anguish in those much-experienced eyes.

And like a guilty black shape he crept away:
And the sun was dark and cold in the summer sky:
And the land was withered and old.

He was a withered thing, and he was old:
Stealing far out to the cool forest,
And beyond the battle.