Sidney Lanier

“ Each artist—gift of terror!—owns his will.
For thee, Cloud,—if thou spend thine all
Upon the South's o'er-brimming sea
⁠That needs thee not; or crawl
To the dry provinces, and fall
Till every convert clod shall give to thee
Green worship; if thou grow or fade,
Bring on delight or misery,
⁠Fly east or west, be made
Snow, hail, rain, wind, grass, rose, light, shade;
What matters it to thee? There is no thee. ”