I passed upon an older man,
as I went on my way.
And asked him what lands I’d pass
upon tomorrow’s day. 

“Good sir,” I said,
“what place lies yon ahead?
The suns grow red,
and I must know, before I get abed.”

Yet that old man said nothing,
some cat had scratched his tongue
there made no sound but huffing
and carrion that sung.  

“Good sir,” I qouth,
“upon my trothe, don’t speak it all at once!
You’ll tell me yet, and not too soft,
and tell it all forsothe.”  

And that old man looked up at me
with eyes that did not see
and like a hoary willow shook
as silence he forsook:  

“That is a place no man yet knows,
all ring’d around with old willows
It lies within the Sorren swamps
where bogs sink deep like giant-stomps  
So deep you can’t bring horses there 
nor steel nor mail nor might
For that’s no place for arms to bear–
no sir–no place for naught but night.”