Are those which every mortal shares.
The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze—
The light without us and within—
Life with its unlocked treasuries—
God's riches, are for all to win.
The grass is softer to my tread
For rest it yields unnumbered feet;
Sweeter to me the wild-rose red
Because she makes the whole world sweet.
Into your heavenly loneliness