It is a real place, Boston, I tell it to your face. And no dream of mine To ornament a line I can not come nearer to God & Heaven Than I live to Walden even. It is a part of me which I have not prophaned I live by the shore of me detained. Laden with my dregs I stand on my legs, While all my pure wine I to nature consign. I am its stoney shore And the breeze that passes o'er In the hollow of my hand Are its water and its sand; Its deepest resort Lies high in my thought. |