No shame dissuades his thought, no scorn despoils Of beauty, who, the daily heaven beneath, Gathers his bread by runsides, rocks and groves. He drinks from rivers of a thousand soils, And where broad Nature blows, he takes his breath: For so his thought stands like the things he loves, In thunderous purple like Cascadnac peak, Or glimpses faint with grass and cinquefoils. The friend may listen with a sneering cheek, Concede the matter good and wish good luck, Or plainly say, "Your brain is planet-struck!" And drop your hoarded thought as vague and vain Like bypast flowers, to redden again in rain, Flung to the offal heap with shard and shuck. |