Say who is this with silvered hair, 
So pale and worn and thin, 
Who passeth here, and passeth there, 
And looketh out and in ? 

That useth not our garb nor tongue, 
And knoweth things untold : 
Who teacheth pleasure to the young, 
And wisdom to the old? 

No toil he maketh his by day, 
No home his own by night ; 
But wheresoe'er he take his way, 
He killeth our delight. 

Since he is come there's nothing wise 
Nor fair in man or child, 
Unless his deep divining eyes 
Have looked on it and smiled. 

Whence came he hither all alone 
Among our folk to spy? 
There's nought that we can call our own, 
Till he shall hap to die. 

And I would dig his grave full deep 
Beneath the churchyard yew, 
Lest thence his wizard eyes might peep 
To mark the things we do.