For the all unfolding Air is what? The Great Idea, if so I may say, A sort of Ocean leaping to waves. And what do you care if they pass away? They sink to their source, not into graves. Beasts may vanish, races decay, The Ocean will always remain the same; With new waves rising, no two alike; Waves that are little and waves that rise In storms and touch the skies. R. Browning, you were a man of power, But I don't think much of your tower. And I see no use of blowing a horn, The tower is merely papier-maché, And comes no higher than to my knees. I step right over it--pick a flower, Purple, it may be, called heart's ease And go with the way of the seas. For I am an optimist better than you: This dream is hell, but it's all to the good: The Ocean is water in calm or flood. There's nothing wrecked, or wrongly wrought, There's nothing real but Thought! THE OAK TREE The oak in later August, Before his leaves are strewn, And the sky is blue as June, Trembles from trunk to branches For frosts that will be soon From the valleys of the moon! For breezes blown in August Veer north with cold and rain; And the oak tree sighs and shivers For lights that shift and wane: As a strong man sees the specters Of age, disease and pain, The oak flings up to heaven His branches in the rain. September comes, September Spreads out a sky that chills. The owl hoots and the cricket Beside the roadway shrills, And on the stricken hills. But the oak tree, the oak tree Still flaunts his shining leaves. No change has come but swallows Who fled the summer eaves! But when October breezes, And cold November gales Descend upon the oak tree What strength of him avails, Grown naked to the tempest, For life that sleeps and fails? O oak tree, oak tree, The winter snow prevails! It cannot be your branches, It is the wind that wails! THE HOUSE ON THE HILL Eagle, your broken wings are tangled Among the mountain ferns On a ledge of rock on high. Below the yawning chasm turns To blackness, but the evening planet burns Above the gulf in a gold and purple sky! Vultures and kites Fly to their rookeries In the rocks With swift and ragged wings against the lights. From levels and from leas Haste the returning flocks. Foxes have holes and serpents the grass for flight. Eagle, arise! It is night. The world's wanderer finds you As he climbs the mountains In the unending quest. Can you spread wings across the darkening chasm To the craggy nest, Where the foreboding mate lies still? Croak for the evening star, And beat your shattered wings against your breast! Across the gulf the wanderer sees afar A light in the house on the hill! WASHINGTON HOSPITAL