We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon. 



This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 



The winds that will be howling at all hours, 



And are up-gathered now like springing flowers 



For this, for everything, we are out of tune. 



It moves us not. Great God ! I 'd rather be 



A pagan suckled in a creed outworn, 



So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 



Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 



Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 



Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



Almost unconsciously I repeat these lines 

 aloud, and straightway the fire, breaking 

 into flame where it has been only glowing 

 before, answers them with a sudden out- 

 burst of heat and light that make a brief 

 summer in my study. When one goes 

 back to the woods and streams after long' 

 separation and absorption in books and 

 affairs, he misses something which once 

 thrilled and inspired him. The meadows 

 are unchanged, but the light that touched 

 them illusively, but with a lasting and in- 

 communicable beauty, is gone; the wood- 

 lands are dim and shadowy as of old, but 

 they are vacant of the presence that once 

 filled them. There is something painfully 

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