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plashing along the boggy woods all day,And over brambled hedge and holding clay,I shall not think of him:But when the watery fields grow brown and dim,And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire,I know that he'll be with me on my wayHome through the darkness to the evening fire. He's jumped each stile along the glistening lanesHis hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins;Hearing the saddle creak,He'll wonder if the frost will dome next week.I shall forget him in the morning light;And while we gallop on he will not speak:But at the stable-door he'll say good-night.
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