Splashing along the boggy woods all day, 
And over brambled hedge and holding clay, 
I shall not think of him: 
But when the watery fields grow brown and dim, 
And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, 
I know that he?ll be with me on my way 
Home through the darkness to the evening fire. 
He?s jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; 
His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; 
Hearing the saddle creak, 
He?ll wonder if the frost will come next week. 
I shall forget him in the morning light; 
And while we gallop on he will not speak: 
But at the stable-door he?ll say good-night.