Speculation with the cud,
     Read their pool of vision through,
     Back to hours when mind was mud;
     Nigh the knot, which did untwine
     Timelessly to drowsy suns;
     Seeing Earth a slimy spine,
     Heaven a space for winging tons. 
     Farther, deeper, may you read,
     Have you sight for things afield,
     Where peeps she, the Nurse of seed,
     Cloaked, but in the peep revealed;
     Showing a kind face and sweet: 
     Look you with the soul you see’t. 
     Glory narrowing to grace,
     Grace to glory magnified,
     Following that will you embrace
     Close in arms or aery wide. 
     Banished is the white Foam-born
     Not from here, nor under ban
     Phoebus lyrist, Phoebe’s horn,
     Pipings of the reedy Pan. 
     Loved of Earth of old they were,
     Loving did interpret her;
     And the sterner worship bars
     None whom Song has made her stars. 
     You have seen the huntress moon
     Radiantly facing dawn,
     Dusky meads between them strewn
     Glimmering like downy awn: 
     Argent Westward glows the hunt,
     East the blush about to climb;
     One another fair they front,
     Transient, yet outshine the time;
     Even as dewlight off the rose
     In the mind a jewel sows. 
     Thus opposing grandeurs live
     Here if Beauty be their dower: 
     Doth she of her spirit give,
     Fleetingness will spare her flower. 
     This is in the tune we play,
     Which no spring of strength would quell;
     In subduing does not slay;
     Guides the channel, guards the well: 
     Tempered holds the young blood-heat,
     Yet through measured grave accord,
     Hears the heart of wildness beat
     Like a centaur’s hoof on sward. 
     Drink the sense the notes infuse,
     You a larger self will find: 
     Sweetest fellowship ensues
     With the creatures of your kind. 
     Ay, and Love, if Love it be
     Flaming over I and me,
     Love meet they who do not shove
     Cravings in the van of Love. 
     Courtly dames are here to woo,
     Knowing love if it be true. 
     Reverence the blossom-shoot
     Fervently, they are the fruit. 
     Mark them stepping, hear them talk,
     Goddess, is no myth inane,
     You will say of those who walk
     In the woods of Westermain. 
     Waters that from throat and thigh
     Dart the sun his arrows back;
     Leaves that on a woodland sigh
     Chat of secret things no lack;
     Shadowy branch-leaves, waters clear,
     Bare or veiled they move sincere;
     Not by slavish terrors tripped
     Being anew in nature dipped,
     Growths of what they step on, these;
     With the roots the grace of trees. 
     Casket-breasts they give, nor hide,
     For a tyrant’s