Walls
Eva Gore-Booth
1870 to 1926
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Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,
The thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,
The lofty rose, low-grown aconite,
The gliding river and the stream that
Down the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls—
these are equal in the equal light—
All waters the one Infinite.
God made a garden, it was built walls;
But the wide sea from men is freed;
Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,
Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,
Where rhythmic flow for no miser's sake
And none hath profit the brown sea-weed,
But all things give themselves, yet may take.