Crush dainty violets in their dalliance,
Laughing in chorus with the birds; and then
(Coming at harvest time upon my tracks)
See these same lovers in the golden sheaves
Under the sun. The same, the fuller fruit,
Say you? But somehow, nearer to the end,
Lost the old sense of mystery, and lost
That curious reverence in sacrilege
With Wonder—the child’s faculty! Less joy,
Less laughter, yes! that symptom I approve;