OUR FIELD.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be.

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears: To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.