His world was very real, they said,—
The sky's blue dome stretched overhead,
Above deep-blossomed trees.
His intimates? Some well-thumbed books.
His friends? The flowers and the brooks,
The butterflies and bees.
Come summer's sun, come winter's snow,
What high ideals could one know
Of truer worth than these?
A happy life; set round about
With beauty. Yet one well may doubt
If all its cherished joys
Were truly real. These things must pass.
(We darkly see, as in a glass),
They are but transient toys.
The true must be eternal. Love,
And Life, and Truth—all else above!—
Such not e'en time destroys.
