 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ON SOME FLIES IN THE SUNBEAMS.
Each fly, that dances in yon' setting sun,Has got a glory from the plenitude
Of light, which it, exhaustless source of good,
Not misses, though so much, since he begun
His bounteous course, already he hath done!
Nature doth nothing from its share exclude
Of happiness—in her infinitude
Of ways and means, she hath for every one
More than enough in its degree and kind—
And by that halo she would teach us this:
That even so each in itself can find
(Of which that but the mere reflection is)
An inward light, for guidance, so designed
As to make its necessity its bliss!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |