Classic Poem

Why ride so fast through the wind and rain,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Lest a soul should call for me in vain
To-night, O Vanathee.

Now, whose is the soul shall seek thine aid,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
The soul of one that is sore afraid
To-night, O Vanathee.

O fears he the flurry of wind and rain,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
More deep is the dread that sears his brain
To-night, O Vanathee.

Does he fear the tumult of clanging blows,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Nay, darker still is the fear he knows
To-night, O Vanathee.

Does he fear the loss of wife or child,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
Nay, a terror holds him that's still more wild
To-night, O Vanathee.

O what should make him so sore afraid,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
He fears a wraith that himself has made
To-night, O Vanathee.

Then how shall you cleanse from fear his mind,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
I will touch his eyes, and they shall be blind
To-night, O Vanathee.

Yet still may he know the voice of fear,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
I will touch his ears that he shall not hear
To-night, O Vanathee.

Yet that wraith may linger around his bed,
Grey Rider of the Shee?
No terror shall touch the quiet dead
To-night, O Vanathee.