Page:Poems of nature, Thoreau, 1895.djvu/125

Rh Or from the windows of the forge,

Doth leaven all it passes by.

Nothing is true,

But stands 'tween me and you,

Thou western pioneer,

Who know'st not shame nor fear,

By venturous spirit driven

Under the eaves of heaven,

And canst expand thee there,

And breathe enough of air.

Even beyond the West

Thou migratest

Into unclouded tracts,

Without a pilgrim's axe,

Cleaving thy road on high

With thy well-tempered brow,

And mak'st thyself a clearing in the sky.