Nature is not as you imagine her:
She's not a mold, nor yet a soulless mask-
She is made up of soul and freedom
She is made up of love and speech . . . ...
The earth a cheerless look still wears,
But spring's breath is already swaying
The dead stalks in the field and playing
With boughs as yet of leafage bare. ...
Columbus, take your laurel wreath!
You've done the map of whole Earth and Nations
And finished to the end the list
Of deals, unfinished in the word's creation. ...
There is a song in the sea waves,
A concord - in the spats of nature,
And a reed, by a tune of rustle captured,
In the flood of music gently sways. ...
(With apologies to the singer of the “Song of the Banjo”.)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a “vox humana” tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
... Read complete poem