20 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



With dangling legs and fluttering wings, 

 On the tangled smilax falls; 



He mutters, he shrieks — 



A hopeless cry; 

 You think that he seeks, 

 In peace, to die, 

 But pity him not; 'tis the ghostly chat, 

 An imp, if there is one, rest sure of that. 



Afar in the gloomy swamp, where flits 



The Will-o'-the-wisp by night; 

 This elf, a-dreaming, restless sits, 

 And mutters his strange delight, 

 In quavers and sharps, 



And flute-like note, 

 With the twang of harps; 

 That swell the throat 

 Of the mystical, weird, uncanny chat, 

 In league with foul spirits, I'm sure of that. 



The sun was now sinking behind the tall wild-rice of 

 the distant marshes; the linden - shaded reach of the 

 creek behind me was an abode of darkness ; the day was 

 done. 



Turning my boat to the convenient shelter of an 

 overhanging elm, I wended my way homeward, over 

 many a dusty field, pleasing myself with the thought 

 that no spot could prove more satisfying than these 

 bird-beloved windings of Mechen-tschiholens-sipu. 



