Though My Verse But Roam The Air

No One Can Rightly Call His Garden His Own Unless He Himself Made It.

My Virgin Sense Of Sound Was Steeped In The Music Of Young Streams; And Roses Through The Casement Peeped, And Scented All My Dreams.

Though My Verse But Roam The Air And Murmur In The Trees, You May Discern A Purpose There, As In Music Of The Bees.

Doth Nature Draw Me, 'tis Because, Unto My Seeming, There Doth Lurk A Lawlessness About Her Laws, More Mood Than Purpose In Her Work.

Have You Never, When Waves Were Breaking, Watched Children At Sport On The Beach, With Their Little Feet Tempting The Foam-fringe, Till With Stronger And Further Reach Than They Dreamed Of, A Billow Comes Bursting, How They Turn And Scamper And Screech!