I will not dream about ideal things,
Having such eyes as may consider truth,
That flies on her plain customary wings
Beyond the highest reverie of youth.

I have seen beauty living, palpitating,
That the mind's vain creation overwhelms —
The tanager with his green mistress mating,
Grosbeaks in golden light in Concord elms,

In human faces passion past all naming,
No poet ever yet was fit to dream,
The actuality of glory, shaming
The imagined light, the visionary gleam.

Give me but this, if I must make decision.
I will keep beauty. You may have your vision.