They keepa wolf's haunt, a hidden land,a wild way · of wind-bluffsthat writhes in mires · where a rise's streamhurls down cliffs · into hill-darkto seep-holes. Beside here,by a tale of miles, the tarn lies,overloomed by roots · that lean and reach,frost-grasped trees · that gape on the water.Each evening, evil wonder's seen,the waves aflame. While wise and old,none of men's line · knows the lake below.While the heath-runner, hound-chased,the whole-horned stag, harried to hopelessness,falters into the forest-stand, he'll firstbe butchered on the bank · before he'll be savedby plunging into the tarn. No place to while time away--loosened waves · lash up from there,lifted, gray, as gales leap up,stirring storms · till the air's stranglingand the air wails tears. Now once more only youare our sole aid. You've not ever seenthe loathely place · you're likely to find him,the many-sinned thing: make for it if you dare.