My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.

The year is dying in the night.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul