Thy soul is not enchanted by the moon;

     No influential comet draws thy mind

     To steeps intolerable where all behind

Is dark, and many ruin'd stars and strewn.

But thou, contented, canst enthrall the tune

     That haunts each wood and every singing wind;

     Thou, fortunate philosopher, canst find

The dreams of Earth in every drowsy noon.

Match not thy soul against the seraphim:

     They are no more than moths blown to and fro

          And the tempest of the eternal Will.

Rest undismayed in field and forest dim

     And, childlike, on some morning thou shalt know

          The certain faith of a March daffodil.

-Compton Mackenzie (1883-1972)

From Poems; B. H. Blackwell, 1907. In the Public Domain.