ME, my beloved, hear from
Tales of the woods or open sea.
Let our aspiring fancy riseA wren's flight higher toward the skies;
Or far from cities, brown and bare,
Play at the least in open air.
In all the tales men hear us
Still let the unfathomed ocean swell,
Or shallower forest sound
Below the lonely stars of God;
In all, let something still be done,
Still in a corner shine the sun,
Slim-ankled maids be fleet of foot,
Nor man disown the rural flute.
Still let the hero from the
In honest sweat and beats of
Push on along the untrodden
For some inviolate abode.
Still,
O beloved, let me
The great bell beating far and near-The odd, unknown, enchanted
That on the road hales men along,
That from the mountain calls afar,
That lures a vessel from a star,
And with a still, aerial
Makes all the earth enchanted ground.
Love, and the love of life and
Dance, live and sing through all our furrowed tract;
Till the great God enamoured
To him who reads, to him who lives,
That rare and fair romantic
That whoso hears must hear again.
