hint of the neighbouring Savernake forest, it had too much the character of hostility to free movement. This young mind runs tirelessly, with ever revived pleasure, through an open wet bleak grey land, as once the boy clad only in jersey and shorts raced over the dim downs cloaked in rain.
THE SONG OF THE UNGIRT RUNNERS
We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize,
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
'Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
The felicity here is of the rarest and finest kind, and shapes the main form and rhythm; their inevitability sweeps us away and convinces, in spite of no matter what predisposition to stickle over details.
