Page:Poems of nature, Thoreau, 1895.djvu/62

38 But be the favoring gale

That bears me on,

And still doth fill my sail

When thou art gone.

I cannot leave my sky

For thy caprice,

True love would soar as high

As heaven is.

The eagle would not brook

Her mate thus won,

Who trained his eye to look

Beneath the sun.