The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
We murder to dissect.
Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.