A spirit high begets my ardent mood,
But yields not me the key.
And dreaming in the vale, or on a mountain height,
Awed by the great abyss,
My soul doth plead an everlasting right,
“The secret of all this?”
Both wild and winning are Mother Nature’s ways,
Many, varied, one;
In all she sings my soul her mystic lays,
From flower to rolling sun.