  They are remembering forests where they grew,— The midnight quiet, and the giant dance; And all the murmuring summers that they knew Are haunting still their altered circumstance. Leaves they have lost, and robins in the nest, Tug of the goodly earth denied to ships, These, and the rooted certainties, and rest,— To gain a watery girdle at the hips. Only the wind that follows ever aft, They greet not as a stranger on their ways; But this old friend, with whom they drank and laughed, Sits in the stern and talks of other days When they had held high bacchanalias still, Or dreamed among the stars on some tall hill. |
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