THE MISSED MEET 161 



As one would indicate Peru, just where the distance met 



the blue, 



His arm described an arc. 

 And fuming left him HARBOTTLE, SILLITOE, 

 GRIGGS and BRIGGS and BULLER-BROWN, and GRUMBY 

 on the grey. 



All thro' the waning afternoon they pricked towards the 



dead white moon : 

 No trace, no sign of lord or loon : 

 Before them backed away 

 The same long bleak horizon line, 

 The same grimacing whins, 

 The same daft sheep, the same croaked whine, the same 



wide down, out rolled, supine, 

 As like as any pins ; 



Dogged, depressed, rode HARBOTTLE, SILLITOE, 

 GRIGGS and BRIGGS and BULLER-BROWN, and GRUMBY 

 on the grey. 



By whins and sheep, morose, adroop, until the sun's long 



westering stoop 



Shot out before the jaded troop 

 His last expiring ray : 

 It flickered through the wood-smoke's haze 

 Domestic, fragrant, warm, 

 On happy homesteads, miry ways, and lighted in a final 



blaze 



Upon a scarlet form ! 



Then leapt the hearts of HARBOTTLE, SILLITOE, 

 GRIGGS and BRIGGS and BULLER-BROWN, and GRUMBY 

 on the grey. 



