I have put by the schoolmen,
The seeming great and sage;
Nor will I taste the vintage
Brewed in the vats of Age;
But I will sip the dewdrops
On the lily's leaves unfurl'd,
And list the wild birds warble
The wisdom of the world.
But this shall be my learning:
Whate'er the pundit knows
Has the dust of doubt upon it
As to the grave it goes.
The truths that I would gather
Are different in kind,
Touched with a natural magic
No artifice can find.
Ere time, a weird, wild creature,
Had been ensnared and thrall'd
By any human meaning,
The gods in thunder call'd
Among the heights and hollows,
Like syllables that sent
Into the moods of Nature
Aerial wonderment.
And this shall be my learning,
And to this tune I'll grow
As to a magic rarer
Than all the schoolmen know;
Within the ways that hint of
The heathen joys that roam —
The simple things that come to
The heart, and find a home.