The Passage of the Marshes The cold hard lands they bites our hands, they gnaws our feet. The rocks and stones are like old bones all bare of meat. But stream and pool is wet and cool: so nice for feet! And now we wish---- Alive without breath; as cold as death; never thirsting, ever drinking; clad in mail, never clinking. Drowns on dry land, thinks an island is a mountain; thinks a fountain is a puff of air. So sleek, so fair! What a joy to meet! We only wish to catch a fish, so juicy-sweet!   < <Back to book four index < <Back to poems & songs index