And very sensible. No state can build A literature that shall at once be sound And sad on a foundation of wellbeing. To show the level of intelligence Among us; it was just a Warren farmer Whose horse had pulled him short up in the road By me, a stranger. This is what he said, From nothing but embarrassment and want Of anything more sociable to say: “You hear those hound-dogs sing on Moosilauke?[13] Well they remind me of the hue and cry We’ve heard against the Mid-Victorians And never rightly understood till Bryan Retired from politics and joined the chorus. The matter with the Mid-Victorians Seems to have been a man named John L. Darwin.”[14] “Go ’long,” I said to him, he to his horse. I knew a man who failing as a farmer Burned down his farmhouse for the fire insurance, And spent the proceeds on a telescope[15] To satisfy a life-long curiosity About our place among the infinities. And how was that for other-worldliness? If I must choose which I would elevate— The people or the already lofty mountains, I’d elevate the already lofty mountains. The only fault I find with old New Hampshire Is that her mountains aren’t quite high enough. I was not always so; I’ve come to be so. How, to my sorrow, how have I attained A height from which to look down critical On mountains? What has given me assurance To say what height becomes New Hampshire mountains, Or any mountains? Can it be some strength I feel as of an earthquake in my back To heave them higher to the morning star? Can it be foreign travel in the Alps? Or having seen and credited a moment The solid moulding of vast peaks of cloud Behind the pitiful reality Of Lincoln, Lafayette and Liberty? Or some such sense as says how high shall jet The fountain in proportion to the basin? No, none of these has raised me to my throne Of intellectual dissatisfaction, But the sad accident of having seen Our actual mountains given in a map Of early times as twice the height they are— Ten thousand feet instead of only five— Which shows how sad an accident may be. Five thousand is no longer high enough. Whereas I never had a good idea About improving people in the world, Here I am over-fertile in suggestion, And cannot rest from planning day or night How high I’d thrust the peaks in summer snow To tap the upper sky and draw a flow Of frosty night air on the vale below Down from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.