The Granite Gate

Granite keep thee.
Granite bar thee.
Christ forfend the opening Door.*

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Upon the high and rain-torn waste,
where black birds feed and waters sour,
there standeth yet the Granite Gate
beyond the fox-path, west of Thor.

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No mason laid those hanging stones,
nor monk did bless with oil or bell.
The old wives crossed themselves at dusk
and named it not for fear of Hell.

 

Granite keep thee.
Granite bar thee.
Pray no hand unmake the Door.*

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Three men of Widecombe passed that way
in ashfall of the latter year.
One sang loud against the mist,
one laughed, and one would not draw near.

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At dawning came the first man home,
yet knew not wife nor lamb nor fire.
He stood three nights beside the hearth
and spake of roots beneath the mire.

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The second came by cart at noon
with both his poor eyes pecked and gone.
He cried no human tongue thereafter
but barked at moons and weather wrong.

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The third man came not home at all,
save once in dream to Margery Blaik,
who woke with granite in her mouth
and blood upon the window-latch.

 

Granite keep thee.
Granite bar thee.
Set no foot through yonder Door.*

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Beneath the Tor the sheep go lame.
The crows grow fat and lose all fear.
In winter oft there soundeth knocks
where no right hand or house is near.

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Some say the Gate is older far
than Christ or king or standing stone.
Some say the dead pass under there
lest God should find them wandering lone.

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Yet this all children once were taught
before the bells of Ashcombe rang:

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If ever on the moor at dusk
thou hear thy mother softly sang,

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and though she sleep beneath the yew
these twenty winters cold and deep—

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turn not thy head toward the sound.

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Walk on.

And do not answer.

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Granite keep thee.
Granite bar thee.
Christ preserve us from the Door.*

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