The God of the Wood

Here all the forces of the wood

As one converge,

To make the soul of solitude

Where all things merge.

The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain,

The visiting moon,

The hurrying cloud by peak and plain,

Each with its boon.

Here power attains perfection still

In mighty ease,

That the great earth may have her will

Of joy and peace.

And so through me, the mortal born

Of plasmic clay,

Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn,

And glad, have sway.

Eternal passions, ardors fine,

And monstrous fears,

Rule and rebel, serene, malign,

Or loosed in tears;

Until at last they shall evolve

From griefs and joys

Some steady light, some firm resolve,

Some Godlike poise.