And those high moods of mine that someone made
  My heart a heaven, opening like a flower,
A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed,
  Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power
Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime
    With changing breaths of rhyme,
Were all gone lifeless now like those white leaves. 
  That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind
  Among the sinewy beeches in the wind,
That vainly calls and grieves.

Ah!  I will set no more mine overtasked brain
  To barren search and toil that beareth nought,
Forever following with sorefooted pain
  The crossing pathways of unbourned thought;
  But let it go, as one that hath no skill,
    To take what shape it will,
An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom,
  A spider bathing in the dew at morn,
  Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne
    From hidden bloom to bloom.

Hither and thither o’er the rocking grass
  The little breezes, blithe as they are blind,
Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass,
  Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind,
  To taste of every purple-fringed head
    Before the bloom is dead;
And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed
  With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear
  Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare
    Like children in a crowd.

Not far to fieldward in the central heat,
  Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands
With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat
  Together like innumerable small hands,
  And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray,
    Hang wan and silver-grey;
Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise,
  Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept
  Out of the hidden covert, where they slept,
    At noon with languid eyes.

The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow,
  That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year,
The dry cicada plies his wiry bow
  In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere: 
  From the green grass the small grasshoppers’ din
    Spreads soft and silvery thin: 
And ever and anon a murmur steals
  Into mine ears of toil that moves alway,
The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay
    And lazy jerk of wheels.

As so I lie and feel the soft hours a wane,
  To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare,
That aching dim discomfort of the brain
  Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care
  Into some hidden corner creeps at last
    To slumber deep and fast;
And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget,
  From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass
  Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass
    To brood, but no more fret.

And hour by hour among all shapes that grow
  Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold
In sweet unrest my visions come and go;
  I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold;
  And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun,
    In gold and shadow spun,
Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim
  Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down,
  Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown,
    And I are soaked with him.