I praised myself for nimble wit. I viewed my jest with pride. But a rock-spring was bubbling it, And subtler jests beside. My breathless ardor was my boast, That raced the heights along, Till a great wind from off the coast Drowned it in sound and song. I preened me on my mood serene, And knew that mood was none Beside the quietude of green Hill-meadows in the sun. My rational armor seemed of proof, Yet who could hope to be Reticent as the clouds aloof, As stoic as a tree? Where the sincerities possess Mountain and wood and dune My fool-bells of self-consciousness Went jangling out of tune. Gladder than I each flower is still, Nobler are wind and sea, More reverent is every hill Than I may hope to be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF A MACHINE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER NATURES COOK by MARGARET LUCAS CAVENDISH THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES by CHARLES D'ORLEANS A CHRISTMAS CAROL, SUNG TO THE KING IN THE PRESENCE AT WHITEHALL by ROBERT HERRICK THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD |