Where We Made The Fire, In The Summer Time, Of Branch And Briar On The Hill To The Sea I Slowly Climb Through Winter Mire, And Scan And Trace The Forsaken Place Quite Readily. Now A Cold Wind Blows, And The Grass Is Gray, But The Spot Still Shows As A Burnt Circle Aye, And Stick-Ends, Charred, Still Strew The Sward Whereon I Stand, Last Relic Of The Band Who Came That Day! Yes, I Am Here Just As Last Year, And The Sea Breathes Brine From Its Strange Straight Line Up Hither, The Same As When We Four Came. - But Two Have Wandered Far From This Grassy Rise Into Urban Roar Where No Picnics Are, And One Has Shut Her Eyes For Evermore.