Kisses you quick, then runs away.
But Madam Bad Luck, she soberly comes,
No fancy has she for flitting,
Snatches of strange, sad songs she sings,
Sits by your side and brings her knitting.”
Well, after all our good fortune, here was Madam Bad Luck come at last, and it really looked as if she had “brought her knitting.”
The camp fire dies down, and a weka or some night bird stirs the dry leaves near at hand. I watch the stars come out, and one fine star rise slowly above the eastern horizon. The night is clear and cold.
“And stretching, stretching over all,
Bends the unmeasured sky, that glows
With its pale stars—like the full close