Nature, to him no message dost thou bear br Who in thy beauty findeth not the power br To gird himself more strongly for the hour br Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare br The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear br To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower, br And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower br Where he may rest until the heavens are fair! br Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance br Of onward movement steady and serene, br Where oft, in struggle and in contest keen, br His eyes will opened be, and all the dance br Of life break on him, and a wide expanse br Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.