The whistle of the shot as it cuts the leaves / Of the maples around the church’s eaves— / And the grade of hatchets, fiercely thrown, / On wigwam-log, and tree, and stone.
Only after he had ceased dreaming of them and thrown off his crushing burden of transcendental morality – only thus and then could he hope to rise out of the slough of despond in which he wallowed.
Nature scarcely ever gives us the very best—for that we must have recourse to art.
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