173 The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
174 Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
175 Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
176 Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
177 The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
178 Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
179 Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
180 And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
181 Departed, have left no addresses.
182 By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
183 Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
184 Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
185 But at my back in a cold blast I hear
186 The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
