Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

DAY follows day; years perish; still mine eyes

Are opened on the self-same round of space;

Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace,

And the large splendors of those opulent skies.

I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes

Of dawn or sunset; the soft boughs which lace

Round some coy dryad in a lonely place,

Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan sighs:

Weary? The poet’s mind is fresh as dew,

And oft refilled as fountains of the light.

His clear child’s soul finds something sweet and new

Even in a weed’s heart, the carved leaves of corn,

The spear-like grass, the silvery rim of morn,

A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night!