Whether my heart hath wiser grown or not, In these three years, since I to thee inscribed, Mine own betrothed, the firstlings of my muse.-- Poor windfalls of unripe experience, Young buds plucked hastily by childish hands Not patient to await more full-blown flowers,-- At least it hath seen more of life and men, And pondered more, and grown a shade more sad; Yet with no loss of hope or settled trust In the benignness of that Providence 10 Which shapes from out our elements awry The grace and order that we wonder at, The mystic harmony of right and wrong, Both working out his wisdom and our good: A trust, Beloved, chiefly learned of thee, Who hast that gift of patient tenderness, The instinctive wisdom of a woman's heart. They tell us that our land was made for song, With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks, Its sealike lakes and mighty cataracts, 20 Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide, And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct. But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods; Her womb and cradle are the human heart, And she can find a nobler theme for song In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore Between the frozen deserts of the poles. All nations have their message from on high, Each the messiah of some central thought, 30 For the fulfilment and delight of Man: One has to teach that labor is divine; Another Freedom; and another Mind; And all, that God is open-eyed and just, The happy centre and calm heart of all.