The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf clutch and sink into the wet bank. the wind crosses the brown land, unheard. the nymphs are departed. sweet thames, run softly, till i end my song. the river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends or other testimony of summer nights. the nymphs are departed. and their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; departed, have left no addresses.