EARTH-BORN

No lapidary's heaven, no brazier's hell for me,

For I am made of dust and dew and stream and plant and tree;

I'm close akin to boulders, I am cousin to the mud,

And all the winds of all the skies make music in my blood.

I want a brook and pine trees, I want a storm to blow

Loud-lunged across the looming hills with rain and sleet and snow;

Do n't put me off with diadems and thrones of chrysoprase,—

I want the winds of northern nights and wild March days.

My blood runs red with sunset, my body is white with rain,

And on my heart auroral skies have set their scarlet stain,

My thoughts are green with spring time, among the meadow rue

I think my very soul is growing green and gold and blue.

What will be left, I wonder, when Death has washed me clean

Of dust and dew and sundown and April's virgin green?

If there's enough to make a ghost, I'll bring it back again

To the little lovely earth that bore me, body, soul, and brain.