I know not how it is with you —
I love the first and last,
The whole field of the present view,
The whole flow of the past.
One tittle of the things that are,
Nor you should change nor I —
One pebble in our path — one star
In all our heaven of sky.
Our lives, and every day and hour,
One symphony appear:
One road, one garden — every flower
And every bramble dear.