Held lingeringly, until the cruel ice
Battered its fastenings. On a rustic bier,
Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter ferns,
We placed them, side by side, and bore them home.
The old man walked behind them, by himself,
And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears.”
So Gilbert told his story; I, meanwhile,
Followed his finger’s pointing, as it marked
Each spot he mentioned, like a teacher’s wand.
But now the sun hung low; from many a field