I have crossed the rapid river[[60]]—
The Danube I shall cross.
If much longer, my Beloved,
Pondering, you wait,
All your wheat in fields shall winter
Harvested too late.
THE TRAMP AT THE INN
“Mud lies at the door, the door of the inn:
Thatched is its roof with straw—O it’s a sin
The money I’ve spent there—the sums untold,