I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. “I go, but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.” So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer’s son who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere,[6] Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter’d home beneath a moon that, just In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the gloomy quay, The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down The bay was oily-calm: the harbour buoy With one green sparkle ever and anon[7] Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.[8] [1] 1842 to 1850. Through. [2] _cf_. Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ix., 1106-7:— A pillar’d shade High overarch’d. [3] 1842. Golden yokes. [4] That is planting turnips, barley, clover and wheat, by which land is kept constantly fresh and vigorous. [5] 1872. Some. [6] Inserted in 1857. [7] Here was inserted, in 1872, the line—Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm. [8] Like the shepherd in Homer at the moonlit landscape, γέγηθε δὲ τε φρένα ποιμήν, _Il_., viii., 559. Walking to the Mail First published in 1842. Not altered in any respect after 1853. _John_. I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike?[1] _James_. Yes. _John_. And when does this come by? _James_. The mail? At one o’clock. _John_. What is it now? _James_. A quarter to. _John_. Whose house is that I see?[2] No, not the County Member’s with the vane: Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables. _James_. That? Sir Edward Head’s: But he’s abroad: the place is to be sold. _John_. Oh, his. He was not broken? _James_. No, sir, he, Vex’d with a morbid devil in his blood That veil’d the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life— That keeps us all in order more or less— And sick of home went overseas for change. _John_. And whither? _James_. Nay, who knows? he’s here and there. But let him go; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jockey Dawes. _John_. What’s that?