204 With Feet to the Earth 



and find rock, snow, and sand ; while back 

 in the plain our way is green : grass fed 

 with our blood and tears. 



And now for a flight to the reddening 

 forest, for I take my vacation, of choice, 

 when the frosts nip and the summer 

 boarder has departed. The old duds come 

 out of the trunk, the grip that holds so 

 little, but enough, swings on my shoulder, 

 there is a ragged staff in hand, some 

 smoky miles are ahead ; then, a haven in 

 the mountains, and a hold, if not on happi- 

 ness, at least on facts. 



None of your candy thoughts, none of 

 your laws and books. A place in the sun, 

 a stinking pipe, meat that a hunter cooks, 

 a sound of wind in the pines, mighty and 

 wide and deep, and water to drink, and 

 peaks to climb, and hemlock boughs for 

 sleep : that's what I want. For I weary of 

 art, I sicken of cant and whim. The earth 

 is right, I would live as true ; stout of 

 heart as of limb. Men are friends of a 

 day ; they don't outlast the hills : I leave 

 the town and its mob, heart -cold, surging 

 around the whirling mills whose hearts are 



