I got from him, one hazy afternoon,
When he and I had wandered to the bridge,
New-built across our favorite of the streams
That skirt the village,—here three miles apart,
Twin currents, joining in a third below.
There memory’s shallop bore us dreamily,
Through changeful windings, to the long, long days
Of June vacations. How we boys would thrid
The alder thickets at the water’s edge,
Conjecturing forward, though the Present lay