Sometimes, with need to sleep—sometimes so cowed
By pain and hunger that for weeks on end
I’d work in the fields,—and maybe lose my friend:
Live steady for a while and flesh my bones,
And reap or plough, or drive the cattle home,
And weed the kitchen patch, and pile up stones;
But always it must end, and I must roam;
One night, as still as stars, I rose, was gone,
They had no trace of me at come of dawn,