That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.
I go to seek the starshine on the waves,
To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,
I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,
The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.
Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind
The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,
Because of primroses, time out of mind,
The Lonely turns away from the Alone.
Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves,