The Age of Gold, by Madison Cawein

  The clouds that tower in storm, that beat
    Arterial thunder in their veins;
  The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
    Their perfect faces from the plains,—
  All high, all lowly things of Earth
  For no vague end have had their birth.

  Low strips of mist that mesh the moon
    Above the foaming waterfall;
  And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn,
    And forests, where the great winds call,—
  Within the grasp of such as see
  Are parts of a conspiracy;

  To seize the soul with beauty; hold
    The heart with love: and thus fulfill
  Within ourselves the Age of Gold,
    That never died, and never will,—
  As long as one true nature feels
  The wonders that the world reveals.