THERE is no need for vain regret,
For envy of the lives whose lot is set
In this enchanted place,
Where grey crags touch the sky — while far below,
Meadows, miraculously green,
Are sunk in sleep, between
Uptowering rocks, and from the cliff’s sheer face
White-flowering bushes grow.
Should you live here, you must choose
The mountain or the valley — and so lose,
For one, the other joy: too soon the when and where
Would have you in their customary care.
Rather, let your dwelling here
Be in the mind — and you are free
Of all the range the ravished eye can see;
May house you without fear
In the topmost pinnacle, where the star-pricked dome
Shall roof you through the night’s slow-wheeling hours,
Or make your home
Among the lilacs and the meadow flowers
Down in the valley — at your will
Be shepherd, huntsman, poet: you may dance
With the linen jigging on the line
In the cherry orchard by the water mill,
Or where the sunbeams shine
From the blue backs of swallows, as they glance
In the mid-air, below
The rocky terrace, to and fro
Your insubstantial form may go,
Now vast as night, now infinitely small —
As having nothing, yet possessing all.
FREDA C. BOND