“Three months more and this purse’ll buy
The next two farms by the Mill Brook dry.
“And then long years of the kindly sun,
Children and work and the wild times done;
—And an end in peace that our hands have won.
“Here I’ll bide till the morning comes,
Then go back for the last of the drums.”
... The wind whined round them like a ghoul.
Into the doorway, still and cool,
They sank, a stone in a plumbless pool.