A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,
The Washer of the Ford;
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde---
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
of the Washer of the Ford.
The Washer of the Ford,
> William Sharp
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