Be they of nature, or of art,
All things recall thee to my heart,
Or be they real or of the mind,
Each thing according to its kind:
The desert aster’s vivid hue,
That boldly paints our arid land,
It’s fragile strength that breaks through sand,
All things return my thoughts to you.
All things remembered, visions fair,
That on my journeys, here and there,
Recount, as part presents the whole,
Some aspect of thine own sweet soul:
As if to sing thy modesty,
The shyness of the forest hind
That leaps away as fast as wind,
A crown, thy beauty’s majesty.
How is it that the wastral world
Sees not within a leaf unfurled,
Or flowers in the wilderness,
Some semblance of thy tenderness?
That men have not yet justly seen
Such things of nature or of art?
I think I know: It is the heart
That maketh human eyes more keen.