O Soul, what tenuous stuff
Thine art employs!
What meager essence is enough
To re-create thy vanished joys!
Some trifle stirs thy skill,
And thou art Builder still.
A sunrise glory o'er the eastern height—
The hylas shrilling to the April night—
A flute-note of the valley-loving bird
In lonely twilight heard—
The scent of burgeoning lilacs in the rain—
And lo! there stands again
High-piled, inwrought with unforgotten gleams,
The structure of youth's dreams.