Music is clear about such freshness and colour,
But how shall I get it?
There is great joy in walking to the quarry scar,
And glory — I have had it.

Beech woods have given me truest secrets, and the sighing
Firs I know, have told me
Truth of the hearts of children, the lovers of making.
Old camps have called me.

It is time I should go out to ways older than tales,
Walk hard, and return
To write an evening and a night through with so many wills
Aiding me — little now to learn.