How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree
Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; And e'en the dearest--that I love the best-- Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
Wildness is my suiting scene.
The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.