O Nature! holy, meek, and mild,
Thou dweller on the mountain wild; 
Thou haunter of the lonesome wood; 
Thou wanderer by the secret flood; 
Thou lover of the daisied sod, 
Where Spring's white foot hath lately trod 
Finder of flowers fresh-sprung and new. 
Where sunshine comes to seek the dew; 
Twiner of bowers for lovers meet; 
Smoother of sods for poets' feet; 
Thrice-sainted matron! in whose face, 
Who looks in love will light on grace; 
Far-worshipp'd goddess! one who gives 
Her love to him who wisely lives; — 
Oh! take my hand, and place me on 
The daisied footstool of thy throne; 
And pass before my darken'd sight 
Thy hand which lets in charmed light; 
And touch my soul, and let me see 
The ways of God, fair dame, in thee. 

Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads, 
Even as her child the mother leads; 
Where corn, yet milk in its green ears, 
The dew upon its shot-blade bears; 
Where blooming clover grows, and where 
She licks her scented foot, the hare; 
Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs 
The thistle with ten thousand stings; 
Untrodden flowers and unpruned trees, 
Gladden'd with songs of birds and bees; 
The ring where last the fairies danced — 
The place where dank Will latest glanced — 
The tower round which the magic shell 
Of minstrel threw its lasting spell — 
The stream that steals its way along, 
To glory consecrate by song: 
And while we saunter, let thy speech 
God's glory and his goodness preach. 

Or, when the sun sinks, and the bright 
Round moon sheds down her lust'rous light; 
When larks leave song, and men leave toiling; 
And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling 
When hoary hinds, with rustic saws, 
Lay down to youth thy golden laws; 
And beauty is her wet cheek laying 
To her sweet child, and silent praying: 
With Thee in hallow'd mood I'll go, 
Through scenes of gladness or of woe:
Thy looks inspired, thy chasten'd speech, 
Me more than man hath taught, shall teach; 
And much that's gross, and more that's vain, 
As chaff from corn, shall leave my strain. 

I feel thy presence and thy power,
As feels the rain yon parched flower; 
It lifts its head, spreads forth its bloom,
Smiles to the sky, and sheds perfume. 
A child of woe, sprung from the clod, 
Through Thee seeks to ascend to God. 

See, on gravel paths under the harpstrung trees
He steps so near the water that a swan’s wing
Might play upon his lank locks with its wind,
The lake’s voice and the rolling of mock waves
Make discord with the voice within his ribs
That thunders as heart thunders, slows as heart slows.
Is not his heart imprisoned by the summer
Snaring the whistles of the birds
And fastening in its cage the flowers’ colour?
No, he’s a stranger, outside the season’s humour,
Moves, among men caught by the sun,
With heart unlocked upon the gigantic earth.
He alone is free, and, free, moans to the sky.
He, too, could touch the season’s lips and smile,
Under the hanging branches hear the winds’ harps.
But he is left. Summer to him
Is the unbosoming of the sun.

So shall he step till summer loosens its hold
On the canvas sky, and all hot colours melt
Into the browns of autumn and the sharp whites of winter,
And so complain, in a vain voice, to the stars.

Even among his own kin is he lost,
Is love a shadow on the wall,
Among all living men is a sad ghost.
He is not man’s nor woman’s man,
Leper among a clean people
Walks with the hills for company,
And has the mad trees’ talk by heart.

An image of decay disturbs the crocus
Opening its iris mouth upon the sill
Where fifty flowers breed in a fruit box,
And washing water spilt upon their necks
Cools any ardour they may have
And he destroys, though flowers are his loves,
If love he can being no woman’s man.
An image born out of the uproarious spring
Hastens the time of the geranium to breathe;
Life, till the change of mood, forks
From the unwatered leaves and the stiff stalks,
The old flowers’ legs too taut to dance,
But he makes them dance, cut capers
Choreographed on paper.
The image changes, and the flowers drop
Into their prison with a slack sound,
Fresh images surround the tremendous moon,
Or catch all death that’s in the air.

O lonely among many, the gods’ man,
Knowing exceeding grief and the gods’ sorrow
That, like a razor, skims, cuts, and turns,
Aches till the metal meets the marrow,
You, too, know the exceeding joy
And the triumphant crow of laughter.
Out of a bird’s wing writing on a cloud
You capture more than man or woman guesses;
Rarer delight shoots in the blood
At the deft movements of the irises
Growing in public places than man knows.

See, on gravel paths under the harpstrung trees,
Feeling the summer wind, hearing the swans,
Leaning from windows over a length of lawns,
On tumbling hills admiring the sea,
I am alone, alone complain to the stars.
Who are his friends? The wind is his friend,
The glow-worm lights his darkness, and
The snail tells of coming rain.