THE stately clouds choose their own company.
Far away over the rooves, behold
Their bright sides making a boast of liberty,
Their beauty unkindly cold.
Poor dusty unhappy restless city Tree,
Your few dun leaves on the harsh bricks abrading —
Remembered forests of elm trees trouble me,
They are long fading.
Yes, there, to your solitude unknown,
Where brothers of yours touch boughs above the corn,
First breath of Eden upon my lips was blown,
And Man or Tree, we are old as we were born.
I with liberty, you with beauty begotten,
Each to what end but being gentle slaves?
Exiled here till brain and branch be rotten.
That men may outgrow their solemn belief in graves;
That truth on their lips may sweeten, beauty shine
In their eyes, and joy in their hearts find voice —
Your Springs lonely that men may see, and mine
That they may rejoice.