SWEET secret of the open air— That waits so long, and always there, unheeded. Something uncaught, so free, so calm large confident— The floating breeze, the far hills and broad sky, And every little bird and tiny fly or flower @3At home@1 in the great whole, nor feeling lost at all or forsaken, Save man—slight man! He, Cain-like from the calm eyes of the Angels, In houses hiding, in huge gas-lighted offices and dens, in ponderous churches, Beset with darkness, cowers; And like some hunted criminal torments his brain For fresh means of escape, continually; Builds thicker higher walls, ramparts of stone and gold, piles flesh and skins of slaughtered beasts, 'Twixt him and that he fears; Fevers himself with plans, works harder and harder, And wanders far and farther from the goal. And still the great World waits by the door as ever, The great World stretching endlessly on every hand, in deep on deep of fathomless content— Where sing the Morning-stars in joy together, And all things are at home. |