As they returned at speed their comrade spoke Strangely and lightly of his coming home, Saying that leaving France had been a joke, But that events now proved him wise to come. Down the steep ’scarpment to the house they clomb, And Michael faltered in his pace; they heard How dumb rebellion in the much-wronged cattle stirred. And as they came, high, from the sick man’s room, Old Gray burst out a-singing of the light Streaming upon him from the outer gloom, As his eyes dying gave him mental sight. "Triumphing swords," he carolled, "in the bright; Oh fire, Oh beauty fire," and fell back dead. Occleve took Michael up to kneel beside the bed. So the night passed; the noisy wind went down; The half-burnt moon her starry trackway rode. Then the first fire was lighted in the town, And the first carter stacked his early load. Upon the farm’s drawn blinds the morning glowed; And down the valley, with little clucks and trills, The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils. II They buried Gray; his gear was sold; his farm Passed to another tenant. Thus men go; The dropped sword passes to another arm, And different waters in the river flow. His two old faithful friends let Michael know His father’s ruin and their promise. Keir Brought him to stay at Foxholes till a path was clear. There, when the sale was over, all three met To talk about the future, and to find Upon what project Michael’s heart was set. Gentle the two old men were, thoughtful, kind. They urged the youth to speak his inmost mind, For they would compass what he chose; they told How he might end his training; they would find the gold. "Thanks, but I cannot," Michael said. He smiled. "Cannot. They’ve kicked me out. I’ve been expelled; Kicked out for good and all for being wild. They stopped our evening leave, and I rebelled. I am a gentle soul until compelled, And then I put my ears back. The old fool Said that my longer presence might inflame the school. "And I am glad, for I have had my fill Of farming by the book with those old fools, Exhausted talkatives whose blood is still, Who strive to bind a living man with rules. This fettered kind of life, these laws, these schools, These codes, these checks, what are they but the clogs Made by collected sheep to mortify the dogs? "And I have had enough of them; and now I make an end of them. I want to go Somewhere where man has never used a plough, Nor ever read a book; where clean winds blow, And passionate blood is not its owner’s foe, And land is for the asking for it. There Man can create a life and have the open air. "The River Plate’s the country. There, I know, A man like me can thrive. There, on the range, The cattle pass like tides; they ebb and flow, And life is changeless in unending change, And one can ride all day, and all day strange, Strange, never trodden, fenceless, waiting there, To feed unending cattle for the men who dare.