Wildness
My soul-harp never thrills to peaceful tunes;
In Nature's wildness my heart finds its home,
When sporting, playmate to the wind and waves,
O'er the wild Orkney's battlefield of foam, —
My steed a white-maned tempest, wild and gray,
Whose hoofs strike fire from each frightened wave,
While the loud thunder strides the crumbling crags,
And shakes his sabre when the breakers rave.
Why walk, monk-like, in cloistered aisles of peace,
When, whispering on every errant breeze,
Fanning the latent fire of my blood,
Comes the far bugle summons of the seas?
In Nature's wildness my heart finds its home,
When sporting, playmate to the wind and waves,
O'er the wild Orkney's battlefield of foam, —
My steed a white-maned tempest, wild and gray,
Whose hoofs strike fire from each frightened wave,
While the loud thunder strides the crumbling crags,
And shakes his sabre when the breakers rave.
Why walk, monk-like, in cloistered aisles of peace,
When, whispering on every errant breeze,
Fanning the latent fire of my blood,
Comes the far bugle summons of the seas?
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