105. A Curse on a Closed Gate

BE THIS the fate

Of the man who would shut his gate

On the stranger, gentle or simple, early or late.

When his mouth with a day’s long hunger and thirst would wish

For the savour of salted fish,

Let him sit and eat his fill of an empty dish.

To the man of that ilk,

Let water stand in his churn, instead of milk

That turns a calf’s coat silk.

And under the gloomy night

May never a thatch made tight

Shut out the clouds from his sight.

Above the ground or below it,

Good cheer, may he never know it,

Nor a tale by the fire, nor a dance on the road, nor a song by a wandering poet.

Till he open his gate

To the stranger, early or late,

And turn back the stone of his fate.