Therefore myself is that one only thing I hold to use or waste, to keep or give; My sole possession every day I live, And still mine own despite Time's winnowing. Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative; Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve; And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing. And this myself as king unto my King I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me; Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing A sweet new song of His redeemed set free; He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting? And sing: O grave, where is thy victory? AN OLD-WORLD THICKET. ..."Una selva oscura."--Dante. Awake or sleeping (for I know not which) I was or was not mazed within a wood Where every mother-bird brought up her brood Safe in some leafy niche Of oak or ash, of cypress or of beech, Of silvery aspen trembling delicately, Of plane or warmer-tinted sycamore, Of elm that dies in secret from the core, Of ivy weak and free, Of pines, of all green lofty things that be. Such birds they seemed as challenged each desire; Like spots of azure heaven upon the wing, Like downy emeralds that alight and sing, Like actual coals on fire, Like anything they seemed, and everything. Such mirth they made, such warblings and such chat With tongue of music in a well-tuned beak, They seemed to speak more wisdom than we speak, To make our music flat And all our subtlest reasonings wild or weak. Their meat was nought but flowers like butterflies, With berries coral-colored or like gold; Their drink was only dew, which blossoms hold Deep where the honey lies; Their wings and tails were lit by sparkling eyes. The shade wherein they revelled was a shade That danced and twinkled to the unseen sun; Branches and leaves cast shadows one by one, And all their shadows swayed In breaths of air that rustled and that played. A sound of waters neither rose nor sank, And spread a sense of freshness through the air; It seemed not here or there, but everywhere, As if the whole earth drank, Root fathom deep and strawberry on its bank. But I who saw such things as I have said, Was overdone with utter weariness; And walked in care, as one whom fears oppress Because above his head Death hangs, or damage, or the dearth of bread. Each sore defeat of my defeated life Faced and outfaced me in that bitter hour; And turned to yearning palsy all my power, And all my peace to strife, Self stabbing self with keen lack-pity knife.