And standing in the shallow stream he slashed,
For hours, it seemed; the thorns, the twigs, the dead leaves splashed,
Splashed and were bobbed away across the shallows;
Pale grasses with the sap gone from them fell,
Sank, or were carried down beyond the sallows.
The bruised ground-ivy gave out earthy smell.
"I must be dead," he thought, "and this is hell."
Fiercely he slashed, till, glancing at the stile,
He saw that Michael stood there, watching, with a smile,
His old contemptuous smile of careless ease,