Under a tall elm, the speaker watches moonlight lie like frost on the grass after the last light has gone. The world feels buried—men, deeds, all his own thoughts—and only he and the moon remain idling over that grave. They have the liberty to dream of what they’d do if they were free, but the dream quickly sours. The least free person, he realises, is the one with nothing to do and nothing he wants to do. Real freedom passed him by in hours spent among others, when he was so absorbed he never wondered whether he was free at all. If he could pile those hours before him now, or forget them without regret, he would be rich. Yet he cannot let go. He confesses a half-love for pain, imperfection, fleeting sorrows, finite things, and this moon that leaves him dark. The mood is solitary and quietly aching—a weary tenderness for the imperfect world.
Liberty — Summary
THE last light has gone out of the world, except This moonlight lying on the grass like frost Beyond the brink of the tall elm's shadow It is as if everything else had slept Many an age, unforgotten and lost The men that were, the things done, long ago, All I have thought; and but the moon and I Live yet and here stand idle over the grave Where all is buried. Both have liberty To dream what we could do if we were free To do some thing we had desired long, The moon and I. There's none less free than who Does nothing and has nothing else to do, Being free only for what is not to his mind, And nothing is to his mind. If every hour Like this one passing that I have spent among The wiser others when I have forgot To wonder whether I was free or not, Were piled before me, and not lost behind, And I could take and carry them away I should be rich; or if I had the power To wipe out every one and not again Regret, I should be rich to be so poor. And yet I still am half in love with pain, With what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth, With things that have an end, with life and earth, And this moon that leaves me dark within the door.