Sprawling unmortared walls of boulder granite,
Marshes; one arm hung bruised where he had fallen,
Blood welled a sticky trickle from his cheek,
Mist gathering in his eye-brows ran full beads
Down to his eyes, making them smart and blur.
At last he blundered on some shepherd’s hut—
He thought, the hut took pity and appeared—
With mounds of peat and welcome track of wheels
Which he now followed to a broad green road
Running from right to left; but still at fault