Or a fragment from "The Calm," when the poet has been thinking of his "tempestuous past," and contrasts it with his present well-being, and the country joys which he fears will be snatched away again: But are these pleasant days to keep? Where shall I be when Summer comes? When, with a bee's mouth closed, she hums Sounds not to wake, but soft and deep, To make her pretty charges sleep? The love of Nature which supplies the theme here is a characteristic that persists throughout the subsequent volumes. It recurs more and more frequently, until the autobiographical element is almost eliminated; and just as it is the main motive of the later poetry, so it is its happiest inspiration. It is rather a pagan feeling, taking great joy in the beauty of the material world, revelling in the impressions of sight and scent, sound and taste and touch. It is humane enough to embrace the whole world of animal life; but it seeks no spirit behind the phenomena of Nature, and cares precisely nothing about its more scientific aspect. Its gay lightsomeness is a charming thing to watch, an amazing thing to think about: For Lord, how merry now am I! Tickling with straw the butterfly, Where she doth in her clean, white dress, Sit on a green leaf, motionless, To hear Bees hum away the hours. Or again, from "Leisure," in _Songs of Joy_: What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. ..... No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. ..... A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. And a "Greeting," from the volume called _Foliage_: Good morning, Life--and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend-- His spending has no end. Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers. The poet does not claim to be learned in nature lore: indeed he declares in one place that he does not know 'the barley from the oats.' But he has a gift of fancy which often plays about his observation with delightful effect. One could hardly call it by so big a name as imagination: that suggests a height and power of vision which this work does not possess, and which one would not look for in this type of genius. It is a lighter quality, occasionally childlike in its naïveté, fantastical, graceful, even quaint. It is seen in simile sometimes, as this from _The Soul's Destroyer_, describing the sky: It was a day of rest in heaven, which seemed A blue grass field thick dotted with white tents Which Life slept late in, though 'twere holiday.