Of love—is school.
Eben, in mystic tumult of his teens,
Stood bursting—like a ripe seed—into soul.
All his life long he had watched the great hills roll
Their shadows, tints and sheens
By sun- and moonrise; yet the bane of hoeing beans,
And round of joyless chores, his father’s toll,
Blotted their beauty; nature was as naught:
He had never thought.
But now he climbed his boyhood’s castle tower