Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/484

456 Its own thought hath;

It is more wise

Than you or I;

As if with eyes

That peer and try,

It feels its way

Across the day.

What little feet

Hard have packed it!

What great hoofs

Gouged and wracked it!

Rude water-courses

Cut across it,

Rocks emboss it;

A lichened cliff

Its route enforces.

Yet on it goes,

And upward flows

Through the dark pines

In wayward lines;

Past the birches

Skyward it lurches:

One more flight—

And on the hight

At last we stand,

And catch the vision

Of sky and land.

"WHAT MAKES THE GARDEN GROW"

makes the garden grow

In beauty and delight—

A place to linger in by day or night,

But chiefly when the long and level light