And there’s a wall of mist along the vale

Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves.

He gazes on it all, and scarce believes

That earth is telling its old peaceful tale;

He thanks the blessed world that he was born….

Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn.

They’re drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate,

And set Golumpus going on the grass:

He knows the corner where it’s best to wait

And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass;

The corner where old foxes make their track

To the Long Spinney; that’s the place to be.

The bracken shakes below an ivied tree,

And then a cub looks out; and “Tally-o-back!”

He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,—

All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood,

And hunting surging through him like a flood

In joyous welcome from the untroubled past;

While the war drifts away, forgotten at last.

Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim

Of twilight stares along the quiet weald,

And the kind, simple country shines revealed

In solitudes of peace, no longer dim.

The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light,

Then stretches down his head to crop the green.

All things that he has loved are in his sight;

The places where his happiness has been

Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good.

* * * * *

Hark! there’s the horn: they’re drawing the Big Wood.

10