O lapidary's heaven, no brazier's hell for me,
For I am made of dust and dew and stream and plant and tree:
I'm close akin to boulders, I am cousin to the mud,
And all the winds of all the sky make music in my blood.
I want a brook and pine trees; I want a storm to blow
Loud-lunged across the looming hills, with driven sleet and snow.
Don't put me off with diadems and thrones of chrysoprase;
I want the winds of northern n