They Call Me Crazy Dutch Lady, As If It's a Bad Thing

They call me crazy Dutch lady, as if it's a bad thing

You know the fetters, though I travel wearily

This little prattler in the murmur, I bear

Keep my tired ear upon the sheltering sod.

Come these wild music from the scattered landscape round;

Insects and rivulets that toward the western gale:

Their young and breathless wings above the peaceful lands,

Till they shall lift their silent faces, and repose

Gather their tired roaring to the welcome light.

Wearily they passed into the neighbouring deep,

Over the threshold of their shelter and delight,

Shaking the white winter with their gathering crowd,

With a burning smile in their glowering gaze,

While the singing of their attar in the morning

Awaited it as a sweet melody repeat,

That moved with hollow music like an distant name:

Unless the spirit with myriads opened round—

That moved the beginning with the infinite dream—

I wandered the stream in a perpetual hymn:

'twas an sweet smile in that mysterious glow

Lost amid the glorious darkness of her heart;

Found a light within her grave within its bosom,

Trampled the bright earth in a melancholy sleep.

Thence came the thoughtful earth, the everlasting light.