  Great is the sun, and wide he goes, Through empty heavens without repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlor cool, Yet he will find a chink or two The dusty attic, spider clad, He through the keyhole maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles Into the laddered hayloft smiles. Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook. Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the world, he goes. —Robert Louis Stevenson. |
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