6
So suave these moor roads that the grasses blur
Along their misty lines; their curious curves
Unwind through dusks of bay and juniper
Past where the marsh hawk flares or rabbit swerves;
Where pond on mirroring pond among the hills
Is cupped in vital blue; whose magnet draws
Spiked pickerel weed; or starred sabatia thrills
Grass threaded ripples on the sandy shores.
7
So dumb are human hearts to every sound
That Nature has! Strangely attuned—dumb still!
There is no keynote to their most profound,
No language for true passion of their will;
Yet in these valleys on these sun-pooled moors,
Where turf roads wind to fountains of the sky,
I have seen Souls freed by the out-of-doors,
To find out here, their liberate ecstasy.
8
Perhaps these gemmy berries on the slope,
Perhaps these dryads of the circling hedge
Write runes of health and happiness and hope,
Or limn new truth in sand and rippled sedge.
For those who tread these wastes of Autumn’s reach
Find dream and vision on the wind-washed lea;
Thoughts broaden, there is fire in the speech,
Minds stir beyond their wonted sophistry.
9
It is the other Self, the questing Ghost
That walks with us the bayberries’ pungent trail;
Seeing this life an empty thing, at most,
Seeing dreams die and all beliefs grow pale.
Musing on hopes and visions, scattered hosts,
Till here, beside some mossy lichen rail,
The sky seems light with truth and starving minds,
Bathed in new energy of moorland winds!
10
The rosaries here are little mealy plums
Trailing like rubies through the tufted moss,
Here a late bee to evening primrose comes.
The fields’ grey wreathéd smoky censers toss,
Where goldenrod has burned from gold to grey;
And asters smoke on an empurpled way.