Classic Poem

The whole round of the year is filled—is built
With beauty, but so few have eyes to see
Its light in all the vast variety
Of appearance. Only at times when there is spilt
Right down upon their souls some showy birth
Of nature—moonlit sea—or sunset when
'Tis rich with cloudlets—are the great levels of men
Made conscious of this element on earth.
The seasons' common, unobtrusive phases,
The gentle days which die in temperate light,
The multitudes of mornings which spring raises
Far sweeter that they do not 'maze the sight,
Move regularly onward, year by year,
Past souls unconscious of the wealth they bear.