To G. F. M. This Volume Is Inscribed In Memory Of Many Days. (One Day And Another)

What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
    Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
    And tempests are unfurled.

Mine are the footpaths leading through
    Life's lowly fields and woods, - with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue, -
    By which the violet lifts

Its shy appeal; and holding up
    Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
    Blooms bright the celandine.

Where soft upon each flowering stock
    The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
    The cottage cricket sings.

Where overhead eve blooms with fire,
    In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
    Burns through the afterglow.

I care not, so the sesame
    I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
    In water, earth and air.

That in the oak tree lets me hear
    Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
    The melodies of birds.

Why should I care, who live aloof
    Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
    And love makes sweet my crust?