The Master said you must not heed

What others talk of at their need

Under the happy trees they sit

That talk of nothing and of wit.

Under the silent trees they stand

That talk of mirth and no man's land.

Under the sulky trees they lie

That wonder of the earth and sky.

This was the matter of the song

No one could sing or well or long.

This was the substance of the tale

No one could tell unless it fail.

This was the subject of the verse

The last one made, lest earth be worse.

So the collateral nightingale

Forgot its music and its tale.

So the lark rose and found but air

And false dominion everywhere.

So the dropt eagle, losing prey,

Swept by and owned but the void day.

Yet what the secret of all this

May be or was none now can guess.

Perhaps beyond what thought defines,

Like wine drawn from sleep‑smothered vines,

There lies some chance that some one may

Make shade and sleep of yesterday.

But whether this be sense or nought,

Surely it was a carefulthought

To have the lawn so nicely laid

Out and the critics all gainsaid.

It was the reason and the home.

The rest is why tis right to roam.