THESE tempers and incalculable hues, This motion of pretended liberty, This haste of waves that rush the shore in glee, As children scramble for their promised dues,— Whose is this hidden law? this impulse whose, So bright, so dark, so mutable, so free? Michal, no chance provokes you to the sea, But kinship that creating gods infuse. Me rather forests gladden: underfoot Grasses and moss and many an unknown shoot And straying paths and straying brooks delight; Rough coats of bark; innumerable trees, Rooted and fixed and helpless; amid these Corners and holes of soft indwelling night. |