XXV

I grieve not that ripe Knowledge takes away

The charm that Nature to my childhood wore,

For, with that insight, cometh, day by day,

A greater bliss than wonder was before;

The real doth not clip the poet's wings,—

To win the secret of a weed's plain heart

Reveals some clue to spiritual things,

And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art:

Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's eyes,

Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense;

He knows that outward seemings are but lies,

Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence

The soul that looks within for truth may guess

The presence of some wondrous heavenliness.