When, weary of the stifling city’s hum,
I seek the quiet of the hills and dales,
I do rejoice to know the man that ails
In heart, or hope, or head, may hither come,
And here may learn how Nature, seeming dumb,
Can soothe where life’s tumultuous current fails—
Here find the still communion that avails
To fire imagination almost numb.
For not alone the Wanderer may read
An ‘elder Bible’s’ unexhausted page,
Or, scarce escaped from out the wars of creed,
May find a Gospel ‘uncorrupt of age,’
But here he feels his spirit’s greater need—
Wide Liberty, Man’s ancient heritage.

(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 3)