And, overworn, he slept the livelong day,
Nor waked until the twilight shadows fell,
That flung a brown night o'er that leafy dell.
Then up he rose refreshed and went his way,
And, half ashamed, he heard the vesper-bell.

Back to the convent fared he; at the gate
A stranger gave him entrance, but he passed
Into the chapel with meek eyes downcast,
In truant guise returning home thus late,
And toward his wonted seat made seemly haste.

Too late! a stranger filled it. Looking round,
Amazed, he could discern no face he knew.
The abbot's self had changed; his wonder grew,
When, after the familiar chant, he found
These crazy monks held him for crazy too.

They gathered round with curious, eager eyes.
"What cloister's this?" he asked. They named its name:
The one he left that morning was the same.
His name he gave; with many a wild surmise
They guessed who he might be and whence he came.

He asked them where the abbot was at last,
From whom he parted but the night before.
"He hath been dead three hundred years and more!"
They answered with a single voice, aghast.
Then spake a friar versed in monkish lore: