HE LOOKS beyond the veils of night and day;
He hearkens in the silence, and has heard
The ancient woods by dryad singing stirred,
To mortal ears how thin and far away.
With what gross laughter yet he turns to play
With slaves of vice and virtue and the herd
Of flopping little Calibans, that gird
At muddy boots and call them feet of clay.
Here you may loaf the valley or breast the hill,