Eight thousand years ago a man I slew;
I lay in wait beside a sparkling rill
There in an upland valley green and still.
The white stream gurgled where the rushes grew;
The hills were veiled in dreamy hazes blue.
He came along the trail; with savage skill
My spear leaped like a snake to make my kill—
Leaped like a striking snake and pierced him through.

And still when blue haze dreams along the sky
And breezes bring the murmer of the sea,
A whisper thrills me where at ease I lie
Beneath the branches of some mountain tree;
He comes, fog dim, the ghost that will not die,
And with accusing finger points at me.