The pot began to bubble and boil;
The old man cast in essence and oil,
He stirred all up with a triple coil
  Of gold and silver and iron wire,
Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil,
    And fed the fire.

But still the steam curled watery white;
Night turned to day and day to night; 230
One thing lacked, by his feeble sight
  Unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind: 
Life might miss him, but Death the blight
    Was sure to find.

So when the hundredth year was full
The thread was cut and finished the school. 
Death snapped the old worn-out tool,
  Snapped him short while he stood and stirred
(Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule)
    With never a word. 240

Thus at length the old crab was nipped. 
The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped
In the broth as the dead man slipped,—­
  That same instant, a rosy red
Flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped
    Round the dead old head.

The last ingredient was supplied
(Unless the dead man mistook or lied). 
Up started the Prince, he cast aside
  The bellows plied through the tedious trial, 250
Made sure that his host had died,
    And filled a phial.

‘One night’s rest,’ though the Prince:  ’This done,
Forth I start with the rising sun: 
With the morrow I rise and run,
  Come what will of wind or of weather. 
This draught of Life when my Bride is won
    We’ll drink together.’

Thus the dead man stayed in his grave,
Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; 260
There he stayed, were he fool or knave,
  Or honest seeker who had not found: 
While the Prince outside was prompt to crave
    Sleep on the ground.

’If she watches, go bid her sleep;
Bit her sleep, for the road is steep: 
He can sleep who holdeth her cheap,
  Sleep and wake and sleep again. 
Let him sow, one day he shall reap,
    Let him sow the grain. 270

’When there blows a sweet garden rose,
Let it bloom and wither if no man knows: 
But if one knows when the sweet thing blows,
  Knows, and lets it open and drop,
If but a nettle his garden grows
    He hath earned the crop.’

Through his sleep the summons rang,
Into his ears it sobbed and it sang. 
Slow he woke with a drowsy pang,
  Shook himself without much debate, 280
Turned where he saw green branches hang,
    Started though late.

For the black land was travelled o’er,
He should see the grim land no more. 
A flowering country stretched before
  His face when the lovely day came back: 
He hugged the phial of Life he bore,
    And resumed his track.

By willow courses he took his path,
Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, 290
Marked the fields green to aftermath,
  Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran,
Loitered a while for a deep-stream bath,
    Yawned for a fellow-man.