What these strong masters wrote at large in miles, I followed in small copy in my acre; For there's no rood has not a star above it; The cordial quality of pear or plum Ascends as gladly in a single tree As in broad orchards resonant with bees; And every atom poises for itself, And for the whole. The gentle deities Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds, The innumerable tenements of beauty. The miracle of generative force, Far-reaching concords of astronomy Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds; Better, the linked purpose of the whole, And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave. The polite found me impolite; the great Would mortify me, but in vain; for still I am a willow of the wilderness, Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk, A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush, A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine, Salve my worst wounds. For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear: 'Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie? Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like Nature pass Into the winter night's extinguished mood? Canst thou shine now, then darkle, And being latent, feel thyself no less? As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye, The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure, Yet envies none, none are unenviable.' DIRGE CONCORD, 1838 I reached the middle of the mount Up which the incarnate soul must climb, And paused for them, and looked around, With me who walked through space and time. Five rosy boys with morning light Had leaped from one fair mother's arms, Fronted the sun with hope as bright, And greeted God with childhood's psalms. Knows he who tills this lonely field To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn? In the long sunny afternoon The plain was full of ghosts; I wandered up, I wandered down, Beset by pensive hosts. The winding Concord gleamed below, Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago, Came with me to the wood. But they are gone,--the holy ones Who trod with me this lovely vale; The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low and pale. My good, my noble, in their prime, Who made this world the feast it was Who learned with me the lore of time, Who loved this dwelling-place! They took this valley for their toy, They played with it in every mood; A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,-- They treated Nature as they would. They colored the horizon round; Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearkened for their sound,-- They made the woodlands glad or mad. I touch this flower of silken leaf, Which once our childhood knew; Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew. Hearken to yon pine-warbler Singing aloft in the tree! Hearest thou, O traveller, What he singeth to me?