Little Things

There's nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay About the rush of faces in the town by day; But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed... And the soft March wind and the low March mist Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed... The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play— These things are beautiful, beautiful as day! And I shan't stand waiting for love or scorn When the feast is laid for a day new-born... Oh, better let the little things I loved when little Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; And better is a temple made of bark and thong Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.