Fragments

Open horizons round, O mounting mind, to scenes unsung, Wherein shall walk a lusty Time: Our Earth is young; Of measure without bound; Infinite are the heights to climb, The depths to sound. A wilding little stubble flower The sickle scorned which cut for wheat, Such was our hope in that dark hour When nought save uses held the street, And daily pleasures, daily needs, With barren vision, looked ahead. And still the same result of seeds Gave likeness 'twixt the live and dead. From labours through the night, outworn, Above the hills the front of morn We see, whose eyes to heights are raised, And the world's wise may deem us crazed. While yet her lord lies under seas, She takes us as the wind the trees' Delighted leafage; all in song We mount to her, to her belong. This love of nature, that allures to take Irregularity for harmony Of larger scope than our hard measures make, Cherish it as thy school for when on thee The ills of life descend.