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THE sparrow dips in his wheel-rut bath, / The sun grows passionate-eyed, / And boils the dew to smoke by the paddock-path; / As strenuously we stride,- / Five of us; dark He, fair He, dark She, fair She, I, / All beating by.
The air is shaken, the high-road hot, / Shadowless swoons the day, / The greens are sobered and cattle at rest; but not / We on our urgent way,- / Four of us; fair She, dark She, fair He, I, are there, / But one-elsewhere.