text: We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.
  Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled
  With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes
  That never flinched or turned to compromise,
  And Luck, he cried, good luck!and waved an arm,
  Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm
  In all of Maine could boast of; and away
  He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay...
  We walked on leisurely until a bend
  Showed him once more, now working toward the end
  Of one great path; wearing his eighty years
  Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers.
  
  Then we turned off abruptlytook the road
  Cutting the village, the one with the commanding
  View of the river. And we strode
  More briskly now to the long pier that showed
  Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.
  In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dipped
  Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped
  More on than in the water. Smoothly then
  We shot its nose against the rippling current,
  Feeling the rising rivers half-deterrent
  Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade
  To keep from swerving round; while we delayed
  To watch the curious wave-eaten locks;
  Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks....
  Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted
  A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.
  And over us the wise and noble-hearted
  Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted,
  And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk
  Down the green, twisting alleys of the Kennebunk,
  
  Motionless in the meadows
  The trees, the rocks, the cows...
  And quiet dripped from the shadows
  Like rain from heavy boughs.
  
  The tree-toads started ringing
  Their ceaseless silver bells;
  A land-locked breeze came swinging
  Its censer of earthy smells.
  
  The rivers tiny canon
  Stretched into dusky lands;
  Like a dark and silent companion
  Evening held out her hands.
  
  Hushed were the dawns bravados;
  Loud noon was a silenced cry
  And quiet slipped from the shadows
  As stars slip out of the sky...
  
  It must have been an hour more, or later,
  When, tramping homeward through the piney wood,
  We felt the years fly back; the brotherhood
  Of forests took usand we saw the satyr!
  There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood
  And grinned to see us stare, incredulous
  Too startled to remember fear or flight.
  Feeling the menace in the crafty night,
  We turned to runwhen lo, he called to us!
  Using our very names he called. We drew
  With creaking courage down the avenue
  Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight,
  (No longer through a tricky, pale-green light)
  Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path,
  And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath!
  The woods became his background; every tree
  Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared
  The beauty of that gnarled serenity;
  The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared
  Its shoulders against Time ... And even night
  Flowed in and out of him, as though content
  With such a native element;
  Happy to move about a spirit quite
  As old, as placid and as confident...
  Sideways we turned. Still glistening and unclad
  He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad,
  His body in the moonlight dripping stars...
  
  We went on homeward, through the pasture-bars.