I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill, 
 By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew; 
 The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through; 
 The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will. 
 The sparse, pale grasses flicker, and are still. 
 The empty flats yearn seaward. All the view 
 Is naked to the horizon's utmost blue; 
 And the bleak spaces stir me with strange thrill. 
 Not in perfection dwells the subtler power 
 To pierce our mean content, but rather works 
 Through incompletion, and the need that irks, -- 
 Not in the flower, but effort toward the flower. 
 When the want stirs, when the soul's cravings urge, 
 The strong earth strengthens, and the clean heavens purge.