Trust me, 't is something to be cast 

 Face to face with one's self at last, 

 To be taken out of the fuss and strife, 

 The endless clatter of plate and knife, 



The bore of books, and the bores of the street, 

 From the singular mess we agree to call Life. 



And to be set clown on one's own two feet 

 So nigh to the great warm heart of God, 



You almost seem to feel it beat 

 Down from the sunshine and up from the sod ; 



To be compelled, as it were, to notice 

 All the beautiful changes and chances 

 Through which the landscape flits and glances, 

 And to see how the face of common day 

 Is written all over with tender histories. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



