I pour into the world the eternal streams Wan prophets tent beside, and dream their dreams.

The soul would have no rainbow, had the eyes no tears.

No command of art, No toil, can help you hear; Earth's minstrelsy falls clear But on the listening heart.

Holding occasion by the hand, Not over nice 'twixt weed and flower, Waiving what none can understand, I make mine hour.

The message from the hedge-leaves, Heed it, whoso thou art; Under lowly eaves Lives the happy heart.

I question not if thrushes sing, If roses load the air; Beyond my heart I need not reach When all is summer there.