And what is so rare as a day in June? / Then, if ever, come perfect days; / Then heaven tries the earth if it be tune, / And over it softly her warm ear lays: / Whether we look, or whether we listen, / We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; / Every clod feels a stir of might, / An instinct within it that reaches and towers, / And, grasping blindly above it for light, / Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. . .