"The poet represents himself as having spent the day in the forest and coming at sunset into full view of the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes. The glooms of the live-oaks and the emerald twilights of the `dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,' have been as a refuge from the riotous noon-day sun. More than that, in the wildwood privacies and closets of lone desire he has known the passionate pleasure of prayer and the joy of elevated thought. His spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, -- he is ready for what Wordsworth calls a `god-like hour'." Mr. Callaway also treats the poem in Part III of the `Introduction'. Remonstrance Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine. [1] Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbear To feature me my Lord by rule and line. Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's hair, Not one sweet inch: nay, if thy sight is sharp, Would'st count the strings upon an angel's harp? Forbear, forbear. Oh let me love my Lord more fathom deep Than there is line to sound with: let me love My fellow not as men that mandates keep: Yea, all that's lovable, below, above, [11] That let me love by heart, by heart, because (Free from the penal pressure of the laws) I find it fair. The tears I weep by day and bitter night, Opinion! for thy sole salt vintage fall. -- As morn by morn I rise with fresh delight, Time through my casement cheerily doth call, "Nature is new, 'tis birthday every day, Come feast with me, let no man say me nay, Whate'er befall." [21] So fare I forth to feast: I sit beside Some brother bright: but, ere good-morrow's passed, Burly Opinion wedging in hath cried, "Thou shalt not sit by us, to break thy fast, Save to our Rubric thou subscribe and swear -- `Religion hath blue eyes and yellow hair': She's Saxon, all." Then, hard a-hungered for my brother's grace Till well-nigh fain to swear his folly's true, In sad dissent I turn my longing face [31] To him that sits on the left: "Brother, -- with you?" -- "Nay, not with me, save thou subscribe and swear `Religion hath black eyes and raven hair': Nought else is true." Debarred of banquets that my heart could make With every man on every day of life, I homeward turn, my fires of pain to slake In deep endearments of a worshiped wife. "I love thee well, dear Love," quoth she, "and yet Would that thy creed with mine completely met, [41] As one, not two." Assassin! Thief! Opinion, 'tis thy work. By Church, by throne, by hearth, by every good That's in the Town of Time, I see thee lurk, And e'er some shadow stays where thou hast stood. Thou hand'st sweet Socrates his hemlock sour; Thou sav'st Barabbas in that hideous hour, And stabb'st the good