But when the even brings surcease,
Grant me the happy moorland peace;
That in my heart's depth ever lie
That ancient land of heath and sky,
Where the old rhymes and stories fall
In kindly, soothing pastoral.
There in the hills grave silence lies,
And Death himself wears friendly guise
There be my lot, my twilight stage,
Dear city of my pilgrimage.



THE COMPANY OF THE MARJOLAINE

I

"Qu'est-c'qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine,"

-CHANSONS DE FRANCE


...I came down from the mountain and into the pleasing valley of
the Adige in as pelting a heat as ever mortal suffered under.
The way underfoot was parched and white; I had newly come out of
a wilderness of white limestone crags, and a sun of Italy blazed
blindingly in an azure Italian sky. You are to suppose, my dear
aunt, that I had had enough and something more of my craze for
foot-marching. A fortnight ago I had gone to Belluno in a