Is the age sordid, impotent, and cold?
None the less sweetly shrill the thrushes call;
None the less swiftly snowy blossoms fall
On slim young grasses and buds manifold
Where kingcups raise their chalices of gold
As tender breezes drift the hawthorn's pall;
None the less milky sway the chestnuts tall;
Or royally are large white clouds enrolled,
Where up the azure mighty branches climb.
On eyes that see and hearts that contemplate
No shadow falls of days degenerate, —
They reckon but by season's change the time;
Here the vain babblings of unlovely hours
Cringe into silence before holier powers.