In this wide nature whose keen air we breathe;
Whose strife arms us to strife.
And they are wise who seek not to destroy
The unreasoned happiness of the outpoured year.
To him, the lost, this vale brought no false joy,
And therefore is most dear.
Wherever in the majesty of space,
Near or afar, but not from God afar,
Where'er his spirit soars, whatever grace
Is his, whatever star—
The aspirations and imaginings
That in these glorious paths his soul sublimed,
They are a part of him; they are the wings
Whereby he strove and climbed.
Nature to man not alien doth endure;
Her spirit in his spirit is transfused;
On this high mystery dream the humble-pure,
The mightiest poets mused.
The white clouds billow down the blowing sky,
Then, O my heart, be lifted up, rejoice!
The trumpet of the winds, to that wild voice
Let all my soul reply!
HOME ACRES
A sense of pureness in the air,
Of wholesome life in growing things;
Waving of blossom, blade, and wings;
Perfume and beauty everywhere;
Sky, trees, the grass, the very loam—
I love them all; this is our home.
