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My Soul—at Liberty—Behind this mortal BoneThere knits a bolder One—You cannot prick with saw—Nor pierce with Scimitar—Two Bodies—therefore be—Bind One—The Other fly—The Eagle of his NestNo easier divest—And gain the SkyThan mayest Thou—Except Thyself may beThine Enemy—Captivity is Consciousness—So’s Liberty.

‘Twas such a gallant – gallant seaThat beckoned it away!‘Twas such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the Coast –Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!

To wrap its shining Yards—Pluck up its stakes, and disappear—Without the sound of BoardsOr Rip of Nail—Or Carpenter—But just the miles of Stare—That signalize a Show’s Retreat—In North America—No Trace—no Figment of the ThingThat dazzled, Yesterday,No Ring—no Marvel—Men, and Feats—Dissolved as utterly—As Bird’s far NavigationDiscloses just a Hue—A plash of Oars, a Gaiety—Then swallowed up,…

Upon a Marge of Snow—It suits his own Austerity—And satisfies an aweThat men, must slake in Wilderness—And in the Desert—cloy—An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—Lapland’s—necessity—The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—The Gnash of Northern windsIs sweetest nutriment—to him—His best Norwegian Wines—To satin Races—he is nought—But Children on the Don,Beneath his Tabernacles, play,And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.

By strech of limb or stir of lid, —An independent one.Was ever idleness like this?Within a hut of stoneTo bask the centuries awayNor once look up for noon?

Accessible to thill of bee,Or cart of butterfly.If town it have, beyond itself,‘T is that I cannot say;I only sigh,–no vehicleBears me along that way.