If I Were Fierce, And Bald, And

Who's This—alone With Stone And Sky? It's Only My Old Dog And I— It's Only Him; It's Only Me; Alone With Stone And Grass And Tree. What Share We Most—we Two Together? Smells, And Awareness Of The Weather. What Is It Makes Us More Than Dust? My Trust In Him; In Me His Trust.

For It Is Humanly Certain That Most Of Us Remember Very Little Of What We Have Read. To Open Almost Any Book A Second Time Is To Be Reminded That We Had Forgotten Well-nigh Everything That The Writer Told Us. Parting From The Narrator And His Narrative, We Retain Only A Fading Impression; And He, As It Were, Takes The Book Away From Us And Tucks It Under His Arm.

O German Mother Dreaming By The Fire, While You Are Knitting Socks To Send Your Son His Face Is Trodden Deeper In The Mud.

December Stillness, Teach Me Through Your Trees That Loom Along The West, One With The Land, The Veiled Evangel Of Your Mysteries. While Nightfall, Sad And Spacious, On The Down Deepens, And Dusk Embues Me Where I Stand, With Grave Diminishings Of Green And Brown, Speak, Roofless Nature, Your Instinctive Words; And Let Me Learn Your Secret From The Sky, Following A Flock Of Steadfast-journeying Birds In Lone Remote Migration Beating By. December Stillness, Crossed By Twilight Roads, Teach Me To Travel Far And Bear My Loads.

How Innocent Were These Trees, That In Mist-green May, Blown By A Prospering Breeze, Stood Garlanded And Gay; Who Now In Sundown Glow Of Serious Colour Clad Confront Me With Their Show As Though Resigned And Sad, Trees, Who Unwhispering Stand Umber, Bronze, Gold; Pavilioning The Land For One Grown Tired And Old; Elm, Chestnut, Aspen And Pine, I Am Merged In You, Who Tell Once More In Tones Of Time, Your Foliaged Farewell.