The Rambler

 I do not see the hills around, 
Nor mark the tints the copses wear; 
I do not note the grassy ground 
And constellated daisies there.


I hear not the contralto note 
Of cuckoos hid on either hand, 
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat 
When eve's brown awning hoods the land.


Some say each songster, tree and mead-- 
All eloquent of love divine-- 
Receives their constant careful heed: 
Such keen appraisement is not mine.


The tones around me that I hear, 
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, 
Are those far back ones missed when near, 
And now perceived too late by me!

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