To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend?
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces,
To a silent smoky Indian that we know—
To a couch of new-prilled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!
—Rudyard Kipling,
The Feet of the Young Men.
The sun was setting and vespers done, the monks came trooping ont, one by one,
And down they went through the garden trim in cassock and cowl to the river’s brim,