The hills and valleys, being these.

Who pities stocks, or pities trees?

Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas?

We are with nature, we have grown

At one with water, earth, and stone—

Man only is separate and alone,

Earth sundered, left to dream and feel

Illusion still in pain made real,

The hope a mist, but fire the wheel.

But what was love, and what was lust,

Memory, passion, pain or trust,

Returned to clay and blown in dust,

Is nature without memory—

Yet as you are, so once were we,

As we are now, you soon shall be,

Blind fellows of the indifferent stars

Healed of your bruises, of your scars

In love and living, in the wars.

Come to us where the secret lies

Under the riddle of the skies,

Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes.

Sink into nature and become

The mystery that strikes you dumb,

Be clay and end your martyrdom.

Rise up as thought, the secret know.

As passionless as stars bestow

Your glances on the world below,

As a man looks at hand or knee.

What is the turf of you, what the tree?

Earth is a phantom—let it be.