Insight.

There is no commonplace !1
                        
                        The lowliest thing hath grace ;2
                        
                        Dull everydays yet hold3
                        
                        A loveliness untold.4
                        
                        ’Tis we, ’tis we are purblind if no miracle we trace.5
                        Earth is a marvellous scroll6
                        
                        To the revealing soul ;7
                        
                        Life is one long delight8
                        
                        To him who reads aright ;9
                        
                        The years a glad procession of infinite wonders roll.10
                        Who sees beyond the veil11
                        
                        No meaner thoughts assail12
                        
                        Daily upon him rises13
                        
                        A world of new surprises,14
                        
                        And fair the city sparrow as the orient nightingale.15
                        His fine sense does not need16
                        
                        On actual sight to feed ;17
                        
                        Many a palace high18
                        
                        He hath in cumuli;19
                        
                        Nymph-haunted streams and leafy lawns—where shakes one  
little reed.20
                        little reed.20
He craves no southern night21
                        
                        Purple athrob with light—22
                        
                        A quiet twilight dim23
                        
                        More than suffices him,24
                        
                        Still soar above his head the depths of vasty heaven’s might.25
                        He needs no pine-crowned lake26
                        
                        Where curvèd ripples break—27
                        
                        A little wayside pool28
                        
                        Doth in its bosom cool29
                        
                        The evanescent image of unfathomed azure take.30
                        
Higher than Alps he goes,31
                        
                        Than peaks of luminous snows—32
                        
                        For him a poplar tree33
                        
                        Can a frail ladder be34
                        
                        To sunset’s mystic hills of gold or morning’s mounts of rose.35
                        Nought made of man may harm36
                        
                        The care-enchaining charm37
                        
                        When the white-robed chestnut tree38
                        
                        His fettered soul sets free39
                        
                        To roam the realms of cloudland by its blossom-cumbered arm ;40
                        And his hot pulses gain41
                        
                        A sure surcease from pain42
                        
                        If but a soft breeze passes43
                        
                        Over a space of grasses,44
                        
                        Some sacred spot where tyrannous life binds this calm soul in  
vain.45
                        vain.45
He knows no weak regrets46
                        
                        And, liberate, forgets—47
                        
                        When April clouds float through48
                        
                        The vague delicious blue—49
                        
                        The petty brain that troubles or the puny heart that frets.50
                        Falls from him unawares51
                        
                        The burden of his cares52
                        
                        When on the dingy town53
                        
                        The mighty Spring comes down,54
                        
                        When amber buds of lilac leaves beatify the squares ;55
                        Or sweeps the glorious throng56
                        
                        Through narrow lanes, along57
                        
                        The city sad and sober58
                        
                        Of wild winds of October,59
                        
                        Uplift, upborne from miry ways upon their pinions strong.60
                        A strip of midnight sky61
                        
                        ’Twixt crowding houses high—62
                        
                        Ah !  starry gates ope wide !63
                        
                        And raised and sanctified64
                        
                        His little life on little earth, its foolish clamours die.65
                        
Compassed with joys he lives66
                        
                        That each bright moment gives,67
                        
                        Engirt with majesties68
                        
                        His unsealed eyesight sees,69
                        
                        To him each cloud and leaf and blade are heavenly fugitives.70
                        He reads the revelations71
                        
                        Of angels’ habitations,72
                        
                        Whether aloft they spring73
                        
                        On light refulgent wing,74
                        
                        Or masked amidst oblivious men they plod in humble stations.75
                        For no one lives apart76
                        
                        In the mind-deadening mart,77
                        
                        But round his being dense78
                        
                        Streams benign influence,79
                        
                        But glimpsèd gleams of spirit forms can irridate his heart.80
                        Never was any lot81
                        
                        So utterly forgot ;82
                        
                        Nought vile or common is83
                        
                        In Nature’s scheme of bliss,84
                        
                        There is no life so isolate that beauty knows it not.85
                        The music of the spheres86
                        
                        Sounds upon city ears,87
                        
                        And radiant visions greet88
                        
                        The watcher in the street.89
                        
                        Only look long and deep and far—and Heaven itself appears !90