Night.

Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat In the door and watched, for on a litter lay The father of his love.

And he was sick To death; but daily he would rouse him up, And stare upon the light, and ever say, "On, let us journey"; but it came to pass That night, across their path a river ran, And they who served the father and the son Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made A fire, to scare away the savagery That roamed in that great forest, for their way Had led among the trees of God.
The moon Shone on the river, like a silver road To lead them over; but when Japhet looked, He said, "We shall not cross it.

I shall lay This well-beloved head low in the leaves,-- Not on the farther side." From time to time, The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow With curling undulations, and would lay Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, When some red log would break and crumble down; And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, Wearily, even Japhet's.

But he cared Little; and in the dark, that was not dark, But dimness of confused incertitude, Would move a-near all silently, and gaze And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form Would falter, then recede, and melt again Into the farther shade.