Free as a bird to settle where I will.
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!