Yet still we miss the grace
Of an intelligent and kindred face.
We still must seek the friend
Who does with Nature blend,
Who is the person in her mask,
He is the man we ask:
Who is the expression of her meaning,
Who is the uprightness of her leaning,
Who is the grown child of her weaning,—
The site of human life,
The face of Nature;
Some sure foundation
And nucleus of a nation.
We twain would walk together
Through every weather,
And see this aged Nature
Go with a bending stature.
I was made erect and lone,
And within me is the bone.
Still my vision will be clear,
Still my life will not be drear.
To the center all is near.
Where I sit there is my throne;
If age choose to sit apart,
If age choose, give me the start;
Take the sap and leave the heart.
But after all, men do not wend asunder, their courses do not diverge; but as the web of destiny is woven it is fulled, and they are
[135]
