It is a real place,
Boston, I tell it to your face.
And no dream of mine
To ornament a line
I can not come nearer to God and Heaven
Than I live to Walden even.
It is a part of me which I have not prophaned
I live by the shore of me detained.
Laden with my dregs
I stand on my legs,
While all my pure wine
I to nature consign.
I am its stoney shore
And the breeze that passes o'er
In the hollow of my hand
Are its water and its sand;
Its deepest resort
Lies high in my thought.