Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire,?
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,?
Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves,
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood,
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good;?

(Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), U.S. poet. The Marshes of Glynn (l. 11-16). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:
'Twas on a tree they slew Him?last
When out of the woods He came.

(Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), U.S. poet. A Ballad of Trees and the Master (l. 11-16). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame,
But the olives they were not blind to Him;

(Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), U.S. poet. A Ballad of Trees and the Master (l. 1-5). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward, the voices of Duty call?
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

(Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), U.S. poet. Song of the Chattahoochee (l. 41-50). . . Family Book of Best Loved Poems, The. David L. George, ed. (1952) Doubleday & Company.)

And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within,
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of
Glynn
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore
When length was failure, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,?
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast sweet visage of space.

(Sidney Lanier (1842-1881), U.S. poet. The Marshes of Glynn (l. 11-16). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)