G!
O Nature, my mother,
Heart melted on heart
At last! Not another,
Not any shall part
Thy soul from my art.
How should it be otherwise,
Sister divine,
Lover, my mother wise,
Wiser than wine?
Seeing I linger
Here on the beach—
Let God’s own finger
Here to me reach,
Making me singer
Each unto each—
Nature and Man made one
In the light and fire of the sun,
And the sobbing tune
Of the moon,
Wedded in cyclic bonds,
Where fall the zon-fronds,
Whose large bed bears a child
(In its due period)
Not merciful and not severe,
Knowing nor love nor fear,
But majesty most mild,
Being indeed a God.
Yea, let the very ray-hand of Apollo
Lead me where none may follow
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