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George
and
I
were
for
camping
out
.
We
said
it
would
be
so
wild
and
free
,
so
patriarchal
like
.
Slowly
the
golden
memory
of
the
dead
sun
fades
from
the
hearts
of
the
cold
,
sad
clouds
.
Silent
,
like
sorrowing
children
,
the
birds
have
ceased
their
song
,
and
only
the
moorhen
's
plaintive
cry
and
the
harsh
croak
of
the
corncrake
stirs
the
awed
hush
around
the
couch
of
waters
,
where
the
dying
day
breathes
out
her
last
.
From
the
dim
woods
on
either
bank
,
Night
's
ghostly
army
,
the
grey
shadows
,
creep
out
with
noiseless
tread
to
chase
away
the
lingering
rear-guard
of
the
light
,
and
pass
,
with
noiseless
,
unseen
feet
,
above
the
waving
river-grass
,
and
through
the
sighing
rushes
;
and
Night
,
upon
her
sombre
throne
,
folds
her
black
wings
above
the
darkening
world
,
and
,
from
her
phantom
palace
,
lit
by
the
pale
stars
,
reigns
in
stillness
.
Then
we
run
our
little
boat
into
some
quiet
nook
,
and
the
tent
is
pitched
,
and
the
frugal
supper
cooked
and
eaten
.
Then
the
big
pipes
are
filled
and
lighted
,
and
the
pleasant
chat
goes
round
in
musical
undertone
;
while
,
in
the
pauses
of
our
talk
,
the
river
,
playing
round
the
boat
,
prattles
strange
old
tales
and
secrets
,
sings
low
the
old
child
's
song
that
it
has
sung
so
many
thousand
years
--
will
sing
so
many
thousand
years
to
come
,
before
its
voice
grows
harsh
and
old
--
a
song
that
we
,
who
have
learnt
to
love
its
changing
face
,
who
have
so
often
nestled
on
its
yielding
bosom
,
think
,
somehow
,
we
understand
,
though
we
could
not
tell
you
in
mere
words
the
story
that
we
listen
to
.
And
we
sit
there
,
by
its
margin
,
while
the
moon
,
who
loves
it
too
,
stoops
down
to
kiss
it
with
a
sister
's
kiss
,
and
throws
her
silver
arms
around
it
clingingly
;
and
we
watch
it
as
it
flows
,
ever
singing
,
ever
whispering
,
out
to
meet
its
king
,
the
sea
--
till
our
voices
die
away
in
silence
,
and
the
pipes
go
out
--
till
we
,
common-place
,
everyday
young
men
enough
,
feel
strangely
full
of
thoughts
,
half
sad
,
half
sweet
,
and
do
not
care
or
want
to
speak
--
till
we
laugh
,
and
,
rising
,
knock
the
ashes
from
our
burnt-out
pipes
,
and
say
"
Good-night
,
"
and
,
lulled
by
the
lapping
water
and
the
rustling
trees
,
we
fall
asleep
beneath
the
great
,
still
stars
,
and
dream
that
the
world
is
young
again
--
young
and
sweet
as
she
used
to
be
ere
the
centuries
of
fret
and
care
had
furrowed
her
fair
face
,
ere
her
children
's
sins
and
follies
had
made
old
her
loving
heart
--
sweet
as
she
was
in
those
bygone
days
when
,
a
new-made
mother
,
she
nursed
us
,
her
children
,
upon
her
own
deep
breast
--
ere
the
wiles
of
painted
civilization
had
lured
us
away
from
her
fond
arms
,
and
the
poisoned
sneers
of
artificiality
had
made
us
ashamed
of
the
simple
life
we
led
with
her
,
and
the
simple
,
stately
home
where
mankind
was
born
so
many
thousands
years
ago
.
Harris
said
:
"
How
about
when
it
rained
?
"
You
can
never
rouse
Harris
.
There
is
no
poetry
about
Harris
--
no
wild
yearning
for
the
unattainable
.
Harris
never
"
weeps
,
he
knows
not
why
.
"
If
Harris
's
eyes
fill
with
tears
,
you
can
bet
it
is
because
Harris
has
been
eating
raw
onions
,
or
has
put
too
much
Worcester
over
his
chop
.
If
you
were
to
stand
at
night
by
the
sea-shore
with
Harris
,
and
say
:
