FOOTPATHS
What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the
barriers of the world, Around whose tops the Northern Lights And
tempests are unfurled!
Mine are the footpaths leading through Life’s lowly fields and
woods,—with rifts, Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,—By which the violet
lifts
Its shy appeal; and, holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine.
Where soft upon each flowering stock The butterfly spreads damask
wings; And under grassy loam and rock The cottage cricket sings.
Where, overhead, eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her
bow, And, arrow-like, one white star by her Burns through the
afterglow.
I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic flower there, Whose touch
unseals each mystery In water, earth and air.
Which, in the oak-tree, lets me hear Its heart’s deep speech, its
soul’s wise words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The melodies of
birds.
Why should I care, who live aloof, Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust?