The Hunting-Coat Pocket 227 



That rustle to partridge and hunter. 



The black duck springs quacking from sedges 

 That shelter the muskrat and mink, 



And visions of rough, craggy ledges 

 Are all in plain view in my closet. 



The freedom that makes a man noble 



And draws him from sordid desires 

 Has come to me here for a moment, 



And stays while a wood-sprite inquires 

 If the seeker for fame and a fortune 



Who wrecks both his body and mind, 

 Ever gains at the end of the struggle 



A treasure as rich as I find 

 In the twig, and the leaf, and the feather. 



