He stopped to shudder, leaning on the gate,
He bit the touchwood underneath the moss;
'Rotten, like her,' he muttered in his hate;
He spat it out again with 'But, you wait,
We'll see again, before to-morrow's past,
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.'
All through the night the stream ran to the sea,
The different water always saying the same,
Cat-like, and then a tinkle, never glee,
A lonely little child alone in shame.