The sun shines bright, my step is light, I, who have no abode, Jeer at the stuck, monotonous Black posts along the road. II. MIDDAY The wood is still, As here I sit My heart drinks in The peace of it. A something stirs I know not where Some quiet spirit In the air. O tall straight stems! O cool deep green! O hand unfelt! O face unseen! III. EVENING The evening closes in, As down this last long lane I plod; there patter round First heavy drops of rain. Feet ache, legs ache, but now Step quickens as I think Of mounds of bread and cheese And something hot to drink. IV. NIGHT Ah! sleep is sweet, but yet I will not sleep awhile Nor for a space forget The toil of that last mile; But lie awake and feel The cool sheets' tremulous kisses O'er all my body steal ... Is sleep as sweet as this is? THE MIND OF MAN I Beneath my skull-bone and my hair, Covered like a poisonous well, There is a land: if you looked there What you saw you'd quail to tell. You that sit there smiling, you Know that what I say is true. My head is very small to touch, I feel it all from front to back, An eared round that weighs not much, Eyes, nose-holes, and a pulpy crack: Oh, how small, how small it is! How could countries be in this? Yet, when I watch with eyelids shut, It glimmers forth, now dark, now clear, The city of Cis-Occiput, The marshes and the writhing mere, The land that every man I see Knows in himself but not in me. II Upon the borders of the weald (I walk there first when I step in) Set in green wood and smiling field, The city stands, unstained of sin; White thoughts and wishes pure Walk the streets with steps demure. In its clean groves and spacious halls The quiet-eyed inhabitants Hold innocent sunny festivals And mingle in decorous dance; Things that destroy, distort, deface, Come never to that lovely place. Never could evil enter thither, It could not live in that sweet air, The shadow of an ill deed must wither And fall away to nothing there. You would say as there you stand That all was beauty in the land. * * * * * But go you out beyond the gateway, Cleave you the woods and pass the plain, Cross you the frontier down, and straightway The trees will end, the grass will wane, And you will come to a wilderness Of sticks and parchèd barrenness.