Big SwimmingRain on the high prairies,In dusk of autumnal hills;Under the creaking saddleMy cheerless pony plods. . . .Down where the obscure waterLapping the lithe willowsSunders the chilling plain--Rusty-hearted and travel worn--We set our bodiesTo the November flood.The farther shore is a cloudBeyond midnight. . . .Big swimming.
The CherwellThis bare bright day of early spring, when stillWe feel the touch of winter in the wind,It's good to watch the river's endless flowAnd restless moving of the thin brown twigs;To see the tree-trunks down in those cold depths,To hear the rushing sound of wind-swept woods,And see the yellow foam below the weir,And wish our life could be as excellent.