Or wings the air, hard by the water-fall.
Over the plain and up the mountain blue
My twanging bow was heard, my arrows flew.
My bowstring now is rent, my arrows all
Like spears that from the withered pine-cones fall,
Have from my shrunken quiver vanished too.
Yet sometimes o’er me steals the olden mood,
And wandering in the forest deep and dark,
I greet each old familiar tree and mark,
Each spot whereon the lovely quarry stood,