Or down a deep glade you should come to me,
Moving your limbs with slow primordial ease,
With eyes whose calm has caught the mystery
That walks at dawn beneath the gloom of trees:
Or by the tenderness of a placid stream:
Or anywhere where trivial clamours cease,
And things irrelevant fade like a dream,
That souls may grow articulate in peace.
Instead of this, I know what will befall:—
The seething station where, urged and confined,