The Traveller-Heart

I would be one with the dark, dark earth:—

Follow the plough with a yokel tread.

I would be part of the Indian corn,

Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead.

I would be one with the lavish earth,

Eating the bee-stung apples red:

Walking where lambs walk on the hills;

By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.

I would be one with the dark-bright night

When sparkling skies and the lightning wed—

Walking on with the vicious wind

By roads whence even the dogs have fled.

I would be one with the sacred earth

On to the end, till I sleep with the dead.

Terror shall put no spears through me.

Peace shall jewel my shroud instead.

I shall be one with all pit-black things

Finding their lowering threat unsaid:

Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,—

Oak-roots arching about my head!

Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth,

Acorns fall round my breast that bled.

Children shall weave there a flowery chain,

Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:—

Fruit of the traveller-heart of me,

Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped:

Sweet with the life of my sunburned days

When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.