1. The Irresponsive Silence Of The Land, The Irresponsive Sounding Of The Sea, Speak Both One Message Of One Sense To Me: - Aloof, Aloof, We Stand Aloof, So Stand Thou Too Aloof Bound With The Flawless Band Of Inner Solitude; We Bind Not Thee; But Who From Thy Self-Chain Shall Set Thee Free? What Heart Shall Touch Thy Heart? What Hand Thy Hand? - And I Am Sometimes Proud And Sometimes Meek, And Sometimes I Remember Days Of Old When Fellowship Seemed Not So Far To Seek And All The World And I Seemed Much Less Cold, And At The Rainbow'S Foot Lay Surely Gold, And Hope Felt Strong And Life Itself Not Weak. 2. Thus Am I Mine Own Prison. Everything Around Me Free And Sunny And At Ease: Or If In Shadow, In A Shade Of Trees Which The Sun Kisses, Where The Gay Birds Sing And Where All Winds Make Various Murmuring; Where Bees Are Found, With Honey For The Bees; Where Sounds Are Music, And Where Silences Are Music Of An Unlike Fashioning. Then Gaze I At The Merrymaking Crew, And Smile A Moment And A Moment Sigh Thinking: Why Can I Not Rejoice With You? But Soon I Put The Foolish Fancy By: I Am Not What I Have Nor What I Do; But What I Was I Am, I Am Even I. 3. Therefore Myself Is That One Only Thing I Hold To Use Or Waste, To Keep Or Give; My Sole Possession Every Day I Live, And Still Mine Own Despite Time'S Winnowing. Ever Mine Own, While Moons And Seasons Bring From Crudeness Ripeness Mellow And Sanative; Ever Mine Own, Till Death Shall Ply His Sieve; And Still Mine Own, When Saints Break Grave And Sing. And This Myself As King Unto My King I Give, To Him Who Gave Himself For Me; Who Gives Himself To Me, And Bids Me Sing A Sweet New Song Of His Redeemed Set Free; He Bids Me Sing: O Death, Where Is Thy Sting? And Sing: O Grave, Where Is Thy Victory?