At Night

How many million stars there be, That only God hath numberéd; But this one only chosen for me In time before her face was fled. Shall not one mortal man alive Hold up his head?
    THE WOOD-CUTTER
    We came behind him by the wall, My brethren drew their brands, And they had strength to strike him down-- And I to bind his hands.
    Only once, to a lantern gleam, He turned his face from the wall, And it was as the accusing angel's face On the day when the stars shall fall.
    I grasped the axe with shaking hands, I stared at the grass I trod; For I feared to see the whole bare heavens Filled with the face of God.
    I struck: the serpentine slow blood In four arms soaked the moss-- Before me, by the living Christ, The blood ran in a cross.
    Therefore I toil in forests here And pile the wood in stacks, And take no fee from the shivering folk Till I have cleansed the axe.
    But for a curse God cleared my sight, And where each tree doth grow I see a life with awful eyes, And I must lay it low.