They tore down the toll-gate By the songless mill,But the gray gate-man Takes toll there still;And he takes from all Whether or not they will.
Few people see him, With his moonlit hair,Taking with ghost palms The old, slim fare.But the whole night long He waits sadly there.
In winter on the snow I can hear his shoesCrunching me welcome, Crunching me adieus:But wherever he goes He leaves no clews.
Strange coin I pay him, Minted in my soul--Tears I caught long ago In a silver bowl,Sighings for a lost love: These I pay for toll.
Strangely does his hand come Out of the thin wind,And strangely is the night air About his shoulders pinned.So white his hair is you would think His soul had never sinned.
The fool goes by him, In a blazing car,Sighing: "How lonely These crossroads are.."But the old gate-man Will follow him far.
Follow him until he pays As men paid of old;But not with cold silver And not with warm gold,But with that treasure Which is life to hold.
On dark, wet nights In the slanting rainThe gate-man bends With an old, old pain;But on warm, clear nights He grows straight again.
They tore down the toll-gate By the songless mill,But the gray gate-man Takes toll there still;You can see his moonlit hair From the next far hill.
