So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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The land was ours before we were the lands. She was our land more than a hundred yearsBefore we were her people. She was oursIn Massachusetts, in Virginia,But we were Englands, still colonials,Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weakUntil we found out that it was ourselvesWe were withholding from our land of living,And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outrightTo the land vaguely realizing westward,But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,Such as she was, such as she would become.
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There is a form that springs from the heart, heard every day in the merry voice of childhood, the expression of a laughter-loving spirit that defies analysis by the philosopher, which has nothing rigid or mechanical in it, and is totally without social significance. Bubbling spontaneously from the artless heart of child or man, without egoism and full of feeling, laughter is the music of life.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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