Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain,
This is joy to ride to my love again:
I laugh in his face when he bids me yield;
Who knows one field from the other field,
For the grey rain driveth all astray?
Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray
The left side yet! the left side yet!
Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet.
Yea so: the causeway holdeth good
Under the water? Hard as wood,
Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight!
Seven hours yet before the light.
Shake the wet off on the upland road;
My tabard has grown a heavy load.
What matter? up and down hill after hill;
Dead grey night for five hours still.
The hill-road droppeth lower again,
Lower, down to the poplar plain.
No furlong farther for us to-night,
The Little Tower draweth in sight;