When in early summer lonely narcissi
bloom hidden in the meadow and the
rock-rose gleams under the maple . . . .

              The splendor of the simple.

              Only image formed keeps the vision.
              Yet image formed rests in the poem.

              How could cheerfulness stream
                    through us if we wanted to shun
                    sadness?

              Pain gives of its healing power
                     where we least expect it.