There’s a moan across the lowland, and a wailing through the woodland
Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us.
There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn
Put off the summer’s languor, with a touch that made us glad
For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow,
To the slopes of other valleys, and the sounds of other shores.”
V
Two Book-Hunters in
South America