A BUSH SECTION
Almost to vanishing, over the snow.
So, the Stars travel, also?
The poor earthly logs, in the wan earthly paddocks,
Never can move, they must stay;
But over the heavenly pastures, the bright, live logs of the heavens
Wander at will, looking down on our paddocks and logs, and pass on.
“O friendly and beautiful Live-Ones!
Coming to us for a little,
Then travelling and passing, while here with our logs we remain,
What are you? Where do you come from?
Who are you? Where do you go?”
Ah, little Questioner!
Son of the Burnt Bush;
Straightly pent ’twixt its logs and ridges,
To its narrow round of monotonous labours
Strictly tether’d and tied:
And here to-night, in the holiday twilight,
Conning, counting, and clasping as treasures,
Whatsoever about your unchanging existence
Moves and changes and lives:—
One delight have you miss’d, and that one of more import than any:
More quick than the River, more fraught than the Mail-Train,
More certain to move than the Stars in their courses,
The most radiant wonder, the rarest excitement of of all.
What is it? Oh, what can it be?
—It is you, little Thor! ’Tis yourself!
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