The God of the Wood

Here all the forces of the wood As one converge, To make the soul of solitude Where all things merge.

The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, The visiting moon, The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, Each with its boon.

Here power attains perfection still In mighty ease, That the great earth may have her will Of joy and peace.

And so through me, the mortal born Of plasmic clay, Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, And glad, have sway.

Eternal passions, ardors fine, And monstrous fears, Rule and rebel, serene, malign, Or loosed in tears;

Until at last they shall evolve From griefs and joys Some steady light, some firm resolve, Some Godlike poise.