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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 08, No. 49, November, 1861 · Chapter 15The Wild Endive
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Only the dusty common road, The glaring weary heat; Only a man with a soldier's load, And the sound of tired feet.
Only the lonely creaking hum Of the Cicada's song; Only a fence where tall weeds come With spikèd fingers strong.
Only a drop of the heaven's blue Left in a way-side cup; Only a joy for the plodding few And eyes that look not up.
Only a weed to the passer-by, Growing among the rest;— Yet something clear as the light of the sky It lodges in my breast.