Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,
And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,
Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.
Around his tent he heard the mighty waters
Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;
Within, the congregated insect life
Monotonously hummed; he made two turns,
Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,
Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift
Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs,