Yea, there are as many stars under the Earth as over the Earth...
Plenty of room to roll around in has our planet...
And I, at the edge of the porch,
Hearing the crickets shrill in the star-thick armies of grass,
And beholding over the spread of Earth the spread of the heavens...
Drink this deep moment in my pilgrimage,
With a sense of how forever I have been alive,
With a conviction that I shall go on, ever safe, ever growing,
The stars to be included in my travels,
And the future sure before me.

I’m tired of the gloom  



In a four-walled room;  



Heart-weary, I sigh  



For the open sky,  



And the solitude  



Of the greening wood;  



Where the bluebirds call,  



And the sunbeams fall,  



And the daisies lure 



The soul to be pure.  



 



I’m tired of the life 



In the ways of strife;  



Heart-weary, I long  



For the river’s song,  



And the murmur of rills  



In the breezy hills;  



Where the pipe of Pan— 



The hairy half-man— 



The bright silence breaks  



By the sleeping lakes.   

They shut the road through the woods

      Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,

      And now you would never know

There was once a road through the woods

      Before they planted the trees.

It is underneath the coppice and heath,

      And the thin anemones.

      Only the keeper sees

That, where the ring-dove broods,

      And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods

      Of a summer evening late,

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools

      Where the otter whistles his mate,

(They fear not men in the woods,

      Because they see so few.)

You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,

      And the swish of a skirt in the dew,

      Steadily cantering through

The misty solitudes,

      As though they perfectly knew

      The old lost road through the woods.

But there is no road through the woods.

    The monotone of the rain is beautiful,
And the sudden rise and slow relapse
Of the long multitudinous rain.

    The sun on the hills is beautiful,
Or a captured sunset sea-flung,
Bannered with fire and gold.

    A face I know is beautiful—
With fire and gold of sky and sea,
And the peace of long warm rain.

^{translated from the German by Jessie Lamont}

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray 
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, 
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour 
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings 
Them at the windows in a radiant shower, 
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep 
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; 
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep 
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.