I sometimes think that never is so grey
The winter-winds that coldly whip away
And suck the warmth from limbs of men outside.
Return to hearth and home! There haply stay!
I sometimes think that never is so green
As after rainfall plants and grasses seen
That remind every eye of Paradise
And Eden’s gardens that of yore had been.
I sometimes think that never are so red
The rose petals that softly fallen shed
Their perfume in their bloodless sacrifice
To delight us: even when they are dead.
I sometimes think that never looks so gold
The pollens that the worker bees unfold
From wild flowers’ open-petalled blooms
And worth much more than kings’ riches untold.