And thou, my gentle guide. Beside the fount
That with its plashing coolness bathes my hand,
And sends its dewy moisture to my brow,
We’ll sit—till the fresh breath of evening comes
To cool the burning air;—for I am faint
Beneath the burden of the summer’s day—
And feel my limbs bowed down with weariness.
And thy step too, my boy, has been less light,
Thy tone less buoyant, than when morning’s flowers
Were fresh beneath thy feet.—How faintly now