1 26 IValks in New England 



And, like my kind, I make ravage 

 Of what I love best. That s our notion : 



If we love, we destroy ; tis the record of history. 

 Destroy and despoil and lay desolate, 



Thus hath man done. O dread Mystery ! 

 Thou whose intent we all guess so late, 



Thou whose gray hell we all tessellate 

 With the blessings we would give, but cannot, 



Art thou coldly the high heavens mounting ? 

 Is t even, who ran and who ran not ? 



Has not character, too, an accounting ? 

 The Spirit speaks the God s astir, 



The speech is brief and strong : 

 &quot; Leave to the lower gods that were 



Their rustic crowd so long. 

 Leave to old Pan his worshiper 



Who knows not of thy wrong ; 

 Leave to the maple and the fir 



The rapture of their song. 

 I breathe through their delicious throats 



The sacred joy of life ; 

 Tis I that utter in their notes 



That melody arife 

 With beauty of the seven spheres 



That reach to Paradise, 

 That melody which he who hears 



Joins to the singing skies ; 

 And he on very wings of birds 



In transport of the soul 

 May rise to me, and, lacking words, 



Know he hath said the whole ! &quot; 



