Underneath the murky wave
And commingle with the flood:
And my brow desires the crown
Of the chimney-smoke-wreaths brown,
And my foot upon the pave
Aches to tramp it up and down
To the discord of the town.
Sunk in this large retirement where God's presence flows
And I can add no drop to His seas, no speck to His skies,
I might yield myself to His shadow for ever on my eyes