Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/58

By willow courses he took his path,
Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath,
Marked the fields green to aftermath,
 Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran,
Loitered a while for a deep stream bath,
  Yawned for a fellow-man.

Up on the hills not a soul in view,
In the vale not many nor few;
Leaves, still leaves and nothing new.
 It's oh for a second maiden, at least,
To bear the flagon, and taste it too,
  And flavour the feast.

Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve;
Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve.
At length the water-bed took a curve,
 The deep river swept its bankside bare;
Waters streamed from the hill-reserve-
  Waters here, waters there.

High above, and deep below,
Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow,
Like hill torrents after the snow,—
 Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife,
Swaying, sweeping to and fro,—
  He must swim for his life.

Which way?—which way?—his eyes grew dim
With the dizzying whirl—which way to swim?
The thunderous downshoot deafened him;