Thou shalt not find me in the clay!
I pierce a little wall of gloom
To mingle with the day!
I brothered with the things that pass,
Poor giddy joy and puckered grief;
I go to brother with the grass
And with the sunning leaf.
Not death can sheathe me in a shroud;
A joy-sword whetted keen with pain,
I join the armies of the cloud,