There is creation in the eye.

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

For nature then to me was all in all.

And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.