Seeking a spring; but all about was dry

As strewn bones bleaching to a desert sky;

Nor did a clawed hole, bought with needed strength,

Return a grateful ooze. And when at length

Hugh sucked the mud, he spat it in disgust.

It had the acrid tang of broken trust,

The sweetish, tepid taste of feigning love!

Still hopeful of a spring somewhere above,

He crawled the faster for his taunted thirst.

More damp spots, no less grudging than the first,