Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,
Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep
Or, as ofttimes, in mood caressing, creep
Over the meadows and adown the hill.
So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,
Blows over proud young hearts and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live, so sweet
To hear the ripple of the bobolink,
To smell the clover blossom white and pink,
To feel oneself far from the dusty street,