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In Conclusion
If I could live year-round upon this hill I should be wiser, but I could not prove Even then some things I know: say what you will, The sweet-fern leans against the log for love. Beyond the reach of argument with me Is the purple on the shingles of the shed That kindles as the sun sinks. When I see Mist fill the lowlands as I go to bed, I know I am through with cleverness, I know That earth's great pulse ignores it: though it run It cannot overtake that logic slow, Uncontroverted, making nine fields one.