Classic Poem

Have ye ever picked berries, O ye Englander, in a wild and towsy lair,
At an hour when the dew hath blushes from the dawn's first rosy stare?
Have ye ever heard that ancient cry of “Let there be light, be light”
Sound over an unknown kingdom at the crimson end of night!
If ye never have, let your critic pen touch not the verse I bear;
For the crags of Rosseau shall not smoothe to whim your London air.

I have quaffed health with the berryman as the dawn washed up the sun.
And the wine I drew was rare I knew; else why had the cobwebs spun.
Red, robust wine in a cluster held—so red that it seemed the dew
Had captured the crimson kiss of morn and thrilled with it through and through.
Have ye ever torn, O critic man, your soft, white hands on a thorn?
Then you'll tear them if you touch these lines that deep in the wilds were born.

I am of the rock's strong vigor: I am of the leaf's unrest:
I am the liege of the silent towers and I am the royal guest.
I have dreamed my nights in a droning hall where a star leaned on a tree,
In a land where a new desire hath taught old Freedom to be free.
And if the sting of your critic's tongue shall leap at the song I bring
I doubt if the waves of Rosseau shall thereupon cease to sing.

We never shall culture a wreath of roses to vie with your England's own,
Where, high on the cliffs of Devon, a garden of bloom is blown.
But the flowers we nurse on our northern crags shall lean on the world's white breast
With grace as rare as the fairest rose that ever a lip hath pressed.
In our shadowy halls the whitethroat calls and, if you dislike his rote,
Think you that he'll fly over Surrey and study the skylark's note.

The reverend word is on our lips and we thrill at the song of Keats.
There isn't a man in all our land to sit in your Mighty's seats.
But there isn't a man in all your land can swing on the giant limb
Held by the pine to nurse the line which the northern bards shall hymn.
There's an even flow of omnibus that tides down your Regent Street;
But you cannot tame our daring streams to run with its conquered feet.

I am a lover of things unloved: for the virgin kiss I yearn.
And my lady fair is an unwooed lair that pillows my head with fern.
The mosses wait all day for my touch and the crags yearn for my cry
To give release to the prisoned sounds that deep in their caverns lie.
And the granite cliffs within my song shall answer the mocking hue
Of every don of the vassaled verse who sneers at my rugged crew.

Out of the North came battlemen who harried the Southern's rest.
And out of the North will come great bards, in their savage garments drest.
For who stands face to the white-winged storm hath a different tale to tell
Than he who sits in a tent of thyme and lists to the vesper bell.
I've brought you a wreath of wildflowers and, if your fair London whines,
I'll sit on the rocks of Rosseau and chant to a sea of pines.

Have ye ever troubled the stars, O Englander, that lie in a blue lake's sleep,
With a blade whose touch is a woman's lip, whose power is a panther's leap?
Have ye ever stood at the end of things and the edge of the things to be,
In a land where a new desire hath taught old freedom to be free?
If ye never have, read on, read on; for I to the North belong.
And the stars that glow in Rosseau's deeps are shining throughout my song.