The flash of sunlight from a bit of glass
Has often power to stop me as I pass;
And when I turn into the burning west
I fling me down upon the sunny grass,

Silent. I tell not all the little things
That fly to me and give my spirit wings;
The black-eyed bird, the cloud, the silver leaf,
The valley wind that passes as it sings.

And when the sun descending from the height,
Seeks in the sunken west the bath of night,
Wrapped in the darkling mantle of the sky
I wander forth and seek a new delight.