There’s not one stone, one leaf, one creeping thing,
No; nor one act or thought, but plays its part
In the universal drama.
You’ll look back
One day on this lost bee-like life of mine;
And find, perhaps, in its obscurest hour
And lowliest task, the moment when a light
Began to dawn upon a child’s dark mind.
The old pestle and mortar, and the shining jars,
The smell of the grey bunches of dried herbs,