ONLY the dusty common road,
The glaring weary heat;
Only a man with a soldier's load,
And the sound of tired feet.

Only the lonely creaking hum
Of the cicada's song;
And a broken fence where tall weeds come
With spikëd fingers strong.

Only a drop of the heaven's blue
Left in a wayside cup, --
A cup of joy for the plodding few
And eyes that look not up.

Only a weed to the passer-by,
Growing among the rest;
Yet something clear as the light of the sky
It lodges in my breast.