Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, for a soul that fulfills Music like that of a bird Thrilling with rapture the hills, Heedless if any one heard. Or, like the flower that blooms Lone in the midst of the trees, Filling the woods with perfumes, Careless if any one sees. Or, like the wandering wind, Over the meadows that swings, Bringing wild sweets to mankind, Knowing not that which it brings.

Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers, And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh; Or, on each season, spell the epitaph Of its dead months repeated in their flowers; Or list the music of the strolling showers, Whose vagabond notes strummed through a twinkling staff; Or read the day's delivered monograph Through all the chapters of its d dal hours. Still with the same child-faith and child-regard He looks on Nature, hearing, at her heart, The beautiful beat out the time and place, Whereby no lesson of this life is hard, No struggle vain of science or of art, That dies with failure written on its face.