She is as in a field a silken tent  At midday when the sunny summer breeze  Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,  So that in guys it gently sways at ease,  And its supporting central cedar pole,  That is its pinnacle to heavenward  And signifies the sureness of the soul,  Seems to owe naught to any single cord,  But strictly held by none, is loosely bound  By countless silken ties of love and thought  To every thing on earth the compass round,  And only by one's going slightly taut  In the capriciousness of summer air  Is of the slightest bondage made aware. -Robert Frost