For the brain strives not to the goal of thought,
And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire
Sleeps for a while, and I am naught
But a pair of eyes that gaze at a fire.
A DAY
I. MORNING
The village fades away
Where I last night came,
Where they housed me and fed me
And never asked my name.
The sun shines bright, my step is light,
I, who have no abode,
Jeer at the stuck, monotonous
Black posts along the road.
II. MIDDAY
The wood is still,
As here I sit
My heart drinks in
The peace of it.
A something stirs
I know not where,
Some quiet spirit
In the air.
O tall straight stems!
O cool deep green!
O hand unfelt!
O face unseen!