I praised myself for nimble wit. I viewed my jest with pride. But a rock-spring was bubbling it, And subtler jests beside. My breathless ardor was my boast, That raced the heights along, Till a great wind from off the coast Drowned it in sound and song. I preened me on my mood serene, And knew that mood was none Beside the quietude of green Hill-meadows in the sun. My rational armor seemed of proof, Yet who could hope to be Reticent as the clouds aloof, As stoic as a tree? Where the sincerities possess Mountain and wood and dune My fool-bells of self-consciousness Went jangling out of tune. Gladder than I each flower is still, Nobler are wind and sea, More reverent is every hill Than I may hope to be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...APPLES OF HESPERIDES by AMY LOWELL THE BLIND GOD by ISAAC ROSENBERG SPRING ON BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR [JUNE 12, 1630] by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH THE HAPPY LIFE by MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS AUGUST SUNSET OVER LAKE CHAMPLAIN by FRANK A. BALCH |