Nature

O Nature! I do not aspire

To be the highest in thy quire, —

To be a meteor in the sky,

Or comet that may range on high;

Only a zephyr that may blow

Among the reeds by the river low;

Give me thy most privy place

Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead

Let me sigh upon a reed,

Or in the woods, with leafy din,

Whisper the still evening in:

Some still work give me to do, —

Only — be it near to you!

For I’d rather be thy child

And pupil, in the forest wild,

Than be the king of men elsewhere,

And most sovereign slave of care: