THE AGE OF GOLD

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat

Arterial thunder in their veins;

The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,

Their perfect faces from the plains,—

All high, all lowly things of Earth

For no vague end have had their birth.

Low strips of mist that mesh the moon

Above the foaming waterfall;

And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn,

And forests, where the great winds call,—

Within the grasp of such as see

Are parts of a conspiracy;

To seize the soul with beauty; hold

The heart with love: and thus fulfill

Within ourselves the Age of Gold,

That never died, and never will,—

As long as one true nature feels

The wonders that the world reveals.