"Riches"
The far sweet rosy distances,
The snow peaks lone and high,
The sweep of softer hill, the firs
That climb and touch the sky;
The rippling laughter of a brook,
A flower-scented rain,
A drench of liquid gold let loose
At sunset on my pane;
The purple splendor of the night
Wherein Orion’s three
Flash constant messages; the frog
That murmurs to the lea;
The wash of waves, the song of birds,
The red fall of a star,
The pale green mist upon the sea,—
These all my riches are.
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