Lighter than dandelion down, Or feathers from the white moth’s wing, Out of the gates of bramble-town The silkweed goes a-gypsying. - Philip Henry Savage

"Something in the sense of morning
Lifts the heart up to the sun."
In our youth we may be pagan,
God is many, and the One
Great Supreme will wait till evening
When our little day is done.

'Tis grace to sing to nature, and to pray
The God of nature, out of His large heart,
To grant us knowledge of His human way;
This is the whole of nature and of art.

The sun, this old November,
Across the sodden slope,
May bid the heart remember,
But cannot bid it hope.