Clear-washed eve with the sunset dying,
Night and the hunter's moon.
Not till all trees and jungles perish
Shall we go back that way
To those dear hills that the hunters cherish,
Where the hearts of the hunters stay;
So you dream on of the ancient glories,
Of water-meadows and hinds and stags,
While I and my like tell old, old stories ...
Ah! but it drags—it drags.