IX.

The poet's arms have wound thee, He breathes upon thy brow, He lifts thee upward in the glow Of his great genius round thee,-- The childlike poet undefiled Preserving evermore THE CHILD.

_MAN AND NATURE._

A sad man on a summer day Did look upon the earth and say--

"Purple cloud the hill-top binding; Folded hills the valleys wind in; Valleys with fresh streams among you; Streams with bosky trees along you; Trees with many birds and blossoms; Birds with music-trembling bosoms; Blossoms dropping dews that wreathe you To your fellow flowers beneath you; Flowers that constellate on earth; Earth that shakest to the mirth Of the merry Titan Ocean, All his shining hair in motion! Why am I thus the only one Who can be dark beneath the sun?"

But when the summer day was past, He looked to heaven and smiled at last, Self-answered so-- "Because, O cloud, Pressing with thy crumpled shroud Heavily on mountain top,-- Hills that almost seem to drop Stricken with a misty death To the valleys underneath,-- Valleys sighing with the torrent,-- Waters streaked with branches horrent,-- Branchless trees that shake your head Wildly o'er your blossoms spread Where the common flowers are found,-- Flowers with foreheads to the ground,-- Ground that shriekest while the sea With his iron smiteth thee-- I am, besides, the only one Who can be bright _without_ the sun."

_A SEA-SIDE WALK._