MY WOODLAND. 59 



jealous of my woodland, I am unselfish enough to 

 wish that every one could take his aching head 

 and bruised heart to such a tender nurse. God 

 speed the time when the bans may be announced 

 for the marriage of every son and daughter of 

 Adam to some lovely spot in nature's green domain ! 

 It is delicious — this sense of exclusive posses- 

 sion. How often as I have hurried across the fields 

 to my wildwood, to get away from the bustle and 

 din and worry of the city, have I felt as Emerson 

 must have felt when he wrote his poem beginning 

 with the line : " Good-by, proud world, I'm going 

 home ! " Listen as he sings of the sequestered 

 haunt for which his heart was sighing : 



•' A secret nook in a pleasant land, 



Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 



Where arches green, the livelong day, 



Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 



And vulgar feet have never trod — 



A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 



"Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 

 I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 

 I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 

 At the sophist schools and the learned clan, 

 For what are they all, in their high conceit, 

 When man in the bush with God may meet." 



