Some one sailing will be wrecked: Separate hunting are they sped, Scan the morsel coveted. Earth that Triad is: she hides Joy from him who that divides; Showers it when the three are one Glassing her in union. Earth your haven, Earth your helm, You command a double realm; Labouring here to pay your debt, Till your little sun shall set; Leaving her the future task: Loving her too well to ask. Eglantine that climbs the yew, She her darkest wreathes for those Knowing her the Ever-new, And themselves the kin o’ the rose. Life, the chisel, axe and sword, Wield who have her depths explored: Life, the dream, shall be their robe, Large as air about the globe; Life, the question, hear its cry Echoed with concordant Why; Life, the small self-dragon ramped, Thrill for service to be stamped. Ay, and over every height Life for them shall wave a wand: That, the last, where sits affright, Homely shows the stream beyond. Love the light and be its lynx, You will track her and attain; Read her as no cruel Sphinx In the woods of Westermain. Daily fresh the woods are ranged; Glooms which otherwhere appal, Sounded: here, their worths exchanged, Urban joins with pastoral: Little lost, save what may drop Husk-like, and the mind preserves. Natural overgrowths they lop, Yet from nature neither swerves, Trained or savage: for this cause: Of our Earth they ply the laws, Have in Earth their feeding root, Mind of man and bent of brute. Hear that song; both wild and ruled. Hear it: is it wail or mirth? Ordered, bubbled, quite unschooled? None, and all: it springs of Earth. O but hear it! ’tis the mind; Mind that with deep Earth unites, Round the solid trunk to wind Rings of clasping parasites. Music have you there to feed Simplest and most soaring need. Free to wind, and in desire Winding, they to her attached Feel the trunk a spring of fire, And ascend to heights unmatched, Whence the tidal world is viewed As a sea of windy wheat, Momently black, barren, rude; Golden-brown, for harvest meet, Dragon-reaped from folly-sown; Bride-like to the sickle-blade: Quick it varies, while the moan, Moan of a sad creature strayed, Chiefly is its voice. So flesh Conjures tempest-flails to thresh Good from worthless. Some clear lamps Light it; more of dead marsh-damps. Monster is it still, and blind, Fit but to be led by Pain. Glance we at the paths behind, Fruitful sight has Westermain. There we laboured, and in turn Forward our blown lamps discern, As you see on the dark deep Far the loftier billows leap, Foam for beacon bear. Hither, hither, if you will, Drink instruction, or instil, Run the woods like vernal sap, Crying, hail to luminousness! But have care. In yourself may lurk the trap: On conditions they caress. Here you meet the light invoked: Here is never secret cloaked.