III. The Path

Fast fade the fields, yet not so fast as fade
The memories of childhood; fades from me
The misty distance of the Hampshire fields;
England is lost already to my heart,
And half the bitterness of death is past.
The moon has made a path upon the waves
Which will be mine to-morrow—toward the East—
The land that bred me cannot nourish me,
And I go forth. I will not mourn the chance.