THE PADDOCK
—More, even, than that—my own part! Deeds to do,
Adventures, and experiences, and—Oh!
Who’s to know what? That’s half the beauty of it....
Yes! there they are, not tales, not dreams, but real,
Waiting for me! and here I’m caught and caged,
And can’t get out! Oh, on a day like this,
When everything just teems with life—the grass
So glad, the sky so gay, the light and air
So large and bright and racy, and young things
Frisking about, tingling with joy:—I tingle,
I stretch and strain, I flutter—but I’m tied!
O, somebody, help! It makes me tug and tear
To snap my rope, escape, break loose, go....go!...
O high unbudging mountain-tops, to mount
Over you! to break through your strict, straight line,
You plains and sky!....On, on! and further yet,
Away! away! to push and pierce and pass
Out! To go wandering with the wind, to see
What the sun sees....Why are we given minds
That want and wander so, if where we are
Is meant for where we should be? Are our feet
Roots?
And you can’t live other people’s lives!
You are yourself, why mayn’t you be yourself?
You’re you, not they. You have to draw your breath,
Sleep your own sleep, and eat your separate dinner?
Your toothaches are your own, I guess, your faults
Are yours? you’ll have to die—why can’t you live?
Why must you try to live in other people?
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