The Clouds That Tower In Storm, That Beat Arterial Thunder In Their Veins; The Wildflowers Lifting, Shyly Sweet, Their Perfect Faces From The Plains, - All High, All Lowly Things Of Earth For No Vague End Have Had Their Birth. Low Strips Of Mist That Mesh The Moon Above The Foaming Waterfall; And Mountains, That God'S Hand Hath Hewn, And Forests, Where The Great Winds Call, - Within The Grasp Of Such As See Are Parts Of A Conspiracy; To Seize The Soul With Beauty; Hold The Heart With Love: And Thus Fulfill Within Ourselves The Age Of Gold, That Never Died, And Never Will, - As Long As One True Nature Feels The Wonders That The World Reveals.