I Awoke In The Midsummer Not-to-call Night,

I Consider My Selfbeing ... That Taste Of Myself, Of I And Me Above And In All Things, Which Is More Distinctive Than The Taste Of Ale Or Alum, More Distinctive Than The Smell Of Walnutleaf Or Camphor, And Is Incommunicable By Any Means To Another Man.

Birds Buildbut Not I Build; No, But Strain, Time's Eunuch, And Not Breed One Work That Wakes. Mine,o Thou Lord Of Life, Send My Roots Rain.

And The Headbonny Ash That Sits Over The Burn. What Would The World Be, Once Bereft Of Wet And Of Wildness? Let Them Be Left, O Let Them Be Left, Wildness And Wet: Long Live The Weeds And The Wilderness Yet.

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

Any Day, Any Minute We Bless God For Our Being Or For Anything, For Food, For Sunlight, We Do And Are What We Were Meant For, Madefor--things That Give And Mean To Give God Glory.