Only the dusty common road,
The glaring weary heat;
Only a man with a soldier's load,
And the sound of tired feet.
Only the lonely creaking hum
Of the Cicada's song;
Only a fence where tall weeds come
With spikèd fingers strong.
Only a drop of the heaven's blue
Left in a way-side cup;
Only a joy for the plodding few
And eyes that look not up.
Only a weed to the passer-by,
Growing among the rest;--
Yet something clear as the light of the sky
It lodges in my breast.