The Age Of Gold

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet, Their perfect faces from the plains,- All high, all lowly things of Earth For no vague end have had their birth. Low strips of mist that mesh the moon Above the foaming waterfall; And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn, And forests, where the great winds call,- Within the grasp of such as see Are parts of a conspiracy; To seize the soul with beauty; hold The heart with love: and thus fulfill Within ourselves the Age of Gold, That never died, and never will,- As long as one true nature feels The wonders that the world reveals.