A Thing Of Many Wanderings, And Loss,
Like To Ulysses On His Poplar Raft,
His Treasure Hid Beneath The Tunnelled Moss
Lest That A Thief His Labour Steal With Craft,
Up The Round Hill, Sheep-Dotted, Was His Way,
Zigzagging Where Some New Adventure Lay.
'My life and soul,' as if he were a Greek,
His heart was Grecian in his greenwood fane;
'My life and soul,' through all the sunny week
The chaffinch sang with beating heart amain,
'The humble-bee the wide wood-world may roam;
One feather's breadth I shall not stir from home.'
No note he took of what the swallows said
About the firing of some evil gun,
Nor if the butterflies were blue or red,
For all his feelings were intent in one.
The loving soul, a-thrill in all his nerves,
A life immortal as a man's deserves.
End of Field and Hedgerow by Richard Jefferies
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