I do not fear my thoughts will die,
For never yet it was so dry
As to scorch the azure of the sky.
It knows no withering and no drought,
Though all eyes crop, it ne'er gives out.
My eyes my flocks are;
Mountains my crops are.
I do not fear my flocks will stray,
For they were made to roam the day,
For they can wander with the latest light,
Yet be at home at night.
Monadnock Valley Press > Thoreau