That which we are, we are.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.