From out the wood and down the stream.
They came not, and he came to dream
Pursuit abandon'd, danger past.
He fell'd the oak, he built a home
Of new-hewn wood with busy hand,
And said, "My wanderings are told."
And said, "No more by sea, by land,
Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam,
For I am worn, and I grow old."
And there, beside that surging tide,