The wealthiest man among us is the best

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.