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 daedal 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, Through which no lesson of this life is hard, No struggle vain of science or of art, That dies with failure written on its face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IF WE MUST DIE by CLAUDE MCKAY ECHOES OF SPRING: 9 by MATHILDE BLIND QUESTION AND ANSWER by MATHILDE BLIND SELF-CONGRATULATION by ANNE BRONTE THE DEATH OF SCHILLER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT FISHING by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |