The Traveller-Heart

 (To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment)


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.

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