It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
 Tugging at banks, until they seemed
 Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,

 That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
 The breath of turgid summer, and
 Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,

 That the man who erected this cabin, planted
 This field, and tended it awhile,
 Knew not the quirks of imagery,

 That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
 Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
 This somnolence and rattapallax,

 Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
 As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
 While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.