Deep of the sea.

Now I go free.

 Wall of the Palisades, I know where greener glades, Deeper glens, darker shades, Hemlock and pine, Far toward the morning lie Under a bluer sky, Lifted by cliffs as high, Haunts that are mine. 

Hemlock and pine,

Haunts that are mine.

 Marshes of Hackensack, See, I am going back Where the Quinnipiac Winds to the bay, Down its long meadow track, Piled with the myriad stack, Where in wide bivouac Camps the salt hay. 

Winds to the bay,

Camps the salt hay.

 Spire of old Trinity, Never again to be Sea-mark and goal to me As I walk down; Chimes on the upper air, Calling in vain to prayer, Squandering your music where Roars the black town: 

As I walk down;

Roars the black town:

 Bless me once ere I ride Off to God's countryside, Where in the treetops hide Belfry and bell; Tongue of the steeple towers, Telling the slow-paced hours— Hail, thou still town of ours— Bedlam, farewell! 

Belfry and bell;

Bedlam, farewell!

 

 

   BEAVER POND MEADOW 

 Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen Shalt be—a lonely land where stilted men Stalking across the surface waters go, Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay, Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logs Afloat, the turtles swarm and 

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