The spirit is the root of life; thereby
We live; and if we starve it, then we die.
When spirit-comrades by cool brook recline,
Beneath the shade of beech or pine,
They reck not which the rich, and which the poor.
Nor envious, nor jealous of neighbours’ store.
Enough to feel the warm blood answering
The joyousness of the sweet Spring:
While the soft turf, to offer greetings due,
Dresses itself in flow’rs of ev’ry hue.