Walking Walden Pond I feel the common day recede, The common light that bred the greed; And, what's more, I feel the old Truculence that set trim Thoreau on, Had him clap sandals at the town And lie among the old leaves brown Where his good wood borders a pond. That my words, too, might live I'll lie down and die--and dead In some low-laid hollow of the wood, Invisibly help spry insects thrive, Be indifferent to the common stamp, Vie for beauty not yet born, Cry pride, 'like that of the morn,' When the rooster mounts his stump. Only the song no singer owns, Ablaze with passion for the interred (Who hear no sigh or word) Can tread old havoc down. I would be buried by that still stream Where mongrel dogs may maunder And secret lovers wander, And would whisper to their dreams: "Tumble the careful monument, Rake memorial gardens back to dirt; Take no trouble for their hurt But, like the hidden dead, exult. Spare no sorrow for today Which finds you battered, incomplete; Compose yourself and die, pure spirit In the sun's declining ray-- And, in that final sunset, say No paltry words, but what Spirit alone deems permanent."