I have loved colours, and not flowers; 
Their motion, not the swallows wings; 
And wasted more than half my hours 
Without the comradeship of things.

How is it, now, that I can see, 
With love and wonder and delight, 
The children of the hedge and tree, 
The little lords of day and night?

How is it that I see the roads, 
No longer with usurping eyes, 
A twilight meeting-place for toads, 
A mid-day mart for butterflies?

I feel, in every midge that hums, 
Life, fugitive and infinite, 
And suddenly the world becomes 
A part of me and I of it.