A wanderer with you o’er many seas;
And slept beside your little fire content,
And fared still on again between green hills
And echoing valleys where the eagled pines
Were full of gloom, and many waters sang,—
Still on to some low plain and highland coign
Remembered not of men, where we had made
Our home amid the music of the hills,
Letting life’s twilight sands glide thro’ the glass
So golden-slow, so glad, no plaintive chime