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terror, on the mould.

       These, the woods of Westermain,

       Are as others to behold,

       Rich of wreathing sun and rain;

       Foliage lustreful around

       Shadowed leagues of slumbering sound.

       Wavy tree-tops, yellow whins,

       Shelter eager minikins,

       Myriads, free to peck and pipe:

       Would you better? would you worse?

       You with them may gather ripe

       Pleasures flowing not from purse.

       Quick and far as Colour flies

       Taking the delighted eyes,

       You of any well that springs

       May unfold the heaven of things;

       Have it homely and within,

       And thereof its likeness win,

       Will you so in soul's desire:

      ​

      This do sages grant t' the lyre.

       This is being bird and more,

       More than glad musician this;

       Granaries you will have a store

       Past the world of woe and bliss;

       Sharing still its bliss and woe;

       Harnessed to its hungers, no.

       On the throne Success usurps,

       You shall seat the joy you feel

       Where a race of water chirps,

       Twisting hues of flourished steel:

       Or where light is caught in hoop

       Up a clearing's leafy rise,

       Where the crossing deerherds troop

       Classic splendours, knightly dyes.

       Or, where old-eyed oxen chew

       Speculation with the cud,

       Read their pool of vision through,

       Back to hours when mind was mud;

      ​

      Nigh the knot, which did untwine

       Timelessly to drowsy suns;

       Seeing Earth a slimy spine,

       Heaven a space for winging tons.

       Farther, deeper, may you read,

       Have you sight for things afield,

       Where peeps she, the Nurse of seed,

       Cloaked, but in the peep revealed;

       Showing a kind face and sweet:

       Look you with the soul you see 't.

       Glory narrowing to grace,

       Grace to glory magnified,

       Following that will you embrace

       Close in arms or aëry wide.

       Banished is the white Foam-born

       Not from here, nor under ban

       Phoebus lyrist, Phoebe's horn,

       Pipings of the reedy Pan.

       Loved of Earth of old they were,

      ​

      Loving did interpret her;

       And the sterner worship bars

       None whom Song has made her stars.

       You have seen the huntress moon

       Radiantly facing dawn,

       Dusky meads between them strewn

       Glimmering like downy awn:

       Argent Westward glows the hunt,

       East the blush about to climb;

       One another fair they front,

       Transient, yet outshine the time;

       Even as dewlight off the rose

       In the mind a jewel sows.

       Thus opposing grandeurs live

       Here if Beauty be their dower;

       Doth she of her spirit give,

       Fleetingness will spare her flower.

       This is in the tune we play,

       Which no spring of strength would quell;

      ​

      In subduing does not slay;

       Guides the channel, guards the well:

       Tempered holds the young blood-heat,

       Yet through measured grave accord,

       Hears the heart of wildness beat

       Like a centaur's hoof on sward.

       Drink the sense the notes infuse,

       You a larger self will find:

       Sweetest fellowship ensues

       With the creatures of your kind.

       Ay, and Love, if Love it be

       Flaming over I and ME, Love meet they who do not shove Cravings in the van of Love. Courtly dames are here to woo, Knowing love if it be true. Reverence the blossom-shoot Fervently, they are the fruit. Mark them stepping, hear them talk,

      ​

      Goddess, is no myth inane,

       You will say of those who walk

       In the woods of Westermain.

       Waters that from throat and thigh

       Dart the sun his arrows back;

       Leaves that on a woodland sigh

       Chat of secret things no lack;

       Shadowy branch-leaves, waters clear,

       Bare or veiled they move sincere;

       Not by slavish terrors tripped;

       Being anew in nature dipped,

       Growths of what they step on, these;

       With the roots the grace of trees.

       Casket-breasts they give, nor hide,

       For a tyrant's flattered pride,

       Mind, which nourished not by light,

       Lurks the shuffling trickster sprite:

       Whereof are strange tales to tell;

       Some in blood writ, tombed in bell.

      ​

      Here the ancient battle ends,

       Joining two astonished friends,

       Who the kiss can give and take

       With more warmth than in that world

       Where the tiger claws the snake,

       Snake her tiger clasps infurled,

       And the issue of their fight

       Peoples lands in snarling plight.

       Here her splendid beast she leads

       Silken-leashed and decked with weeds

       Wild as he, but breathing faint

       Sweetness of unfelt constraint.

       Love, the great volcano, flings

       Fires of lower Earth to sky;

       Love, the sole permitted, sings

       Sovereignly of ME and I. Bowers he has of sacred shade, Spaces of superb parade, Voiceful … But bring you a note

      ​

      Wrangling,

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