OE ARTH , I will have none of thee.
Alien to me the lowly plain,
And the rough passion of the sea
Storms my unheeding heart in vain.

The petulance of rain and wind,
The haughty mountains' superb scorn,
Are but slight things I've flung behind,
Old garments that I have out-worn.

Bare of the grudging grass, and bare
Of the tall forest's careless shade,
Deserter from thee, Earth, I dare
See all thy phantom brightness fade.

And, darkening to the sun, I go
TOenter by the heart's low door,
And find where Love's red embers glow
A home, who ne'er had home before.