That whispered away like a hurtle of arrows?
The rose-odor thickens—the deep gorge narrows;
Now the herd takes down through the scented dells.
Speed, speed, leave the brooks to their potter and prattle;
Sweep on with the thunder and surge of the cattle,
The hurry, the voices, the keen joy of battle—
The hills and the wind and the open light.
Now on into camp by the sycamores yonder;
Now o’er the guitar let the light fingers wander;
Let thoughts in the high heart grow pensive and fonder;