The heron-billed pale cattle-birds

    That feed on some foul parasite

    Of the Moroccan flocks and herds

    Cross the narrow Straits to light

    In the rich midnight of the garden trees

    Till the dawn break upon those mingled seas.

    Often at evening when a boy

    Would I carry to a friend—

    Hoping more substantial joy

    Did an older mind commend—

    Not such as are in Newton‘s metaphor，

    But actual shells of Rosses‘ level shore.

    Greater glory in the sun，

    An evening chill upon the air，

    Bid imagination run

    Much on the Great Questioner；

    What He can question， what if questioned I

    Can with a fitting confidence reply.