What Wouldst Thou More

The sun and all the stars shine on thy head,

The grass and blossoms all are at thy feet;

Nature's glad pageantries for thee are spread,

Her winds loosed for thee, seminal and sweet;

For thee young morn binds his bright sandals on;

Pale evening leads thee to the mother-fold;

The patient seasons serve thee: none are gone

Of all the glories thronging from of old.

Hoar silence sings thee her primeval lay;

Apt dream wraps round thee her enchanting light;

August companions walk with thee by day,

They share thy bed in darkness of the night:

The full years pour upon thee of their store,

They gather for thy lap. What wouldst thou more?