III.

Would that I were asleep inside the earth,

Beneath the bosom-loam, the mothering womb;

I'd sleep my days and nights away in dark

Till dawn or Death come take me from my tomb.

The air, the cold, cold air is far too much

For these weak lungs to bear; the sun too bright

For eyes like mine to open. And I touch

The soulless streets of Man in crowded night

To feel my hand recoil, and my feet

Begin to run for yonder fields of gold!

---Ah! my grassy heart which longs for the wood

And buried root, between the matted fold

Of earth and earth, to happily consume

Myself into myself inside that womb!