Everything that lives about us in the fragile and
gentle light, frail grasses, tender branches,
hollyhocks, and the shadow that brushes them
lightly by, and the wind that knots them, and the
singing and hopping birds that swarm riotously
in the sun like clusters of jewels,-- everything
that lives in the fine ruddy garden loves us
artlessly, and we--we love everything.
We worship the lilies we see growing; and the
tall sunflowers, brighter than the Nadir--
circles surrounded by petals of flames--burn our
souls through their glow.
The simplest flowers, the phlox and the lilac,
grow along the walls among the feverfew, to be
nearer to our footsteps; and the involuntary
weeds in the turf over which we have passed open
their eyes wet with dew.
And we live thus with the flowers and the grass,
simple and pure, glowing and exalted, lost in our
love, like the sheaves in the gold of the corn,
and proudly allowing the imperious summer to
pierce our bodies, our hearts and our two wills
with its full brightness.