Lighter than an owlet's shadow
We will whirl it through the air,
Through blue regions shrill and bare,
So you may in comfort fare--
Shall we carry now your bundle,
You old grey man?"

The Pilgrim lifted up his eyes
And saw three fiends, in the skies,
Stooping o'er that lonely place
Evil in form and face.

"Nay," he answered, "leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild fiends!
Far it is my feet must wander,
And my city lieth yonder
I must bear my bundle alone,
Till the day be done."
The fiends stared down with leaden eye,
Fanning the chill air duskily,
'Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:--

"Shall we smooth the path before you,
You old grey man?
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it o'er with painted flowers,
Lure bright birds to sing and flit
In the honeyed airs of it?
Shall we smooth the path before you,
Grey old man?"