This morning, as I wandered forth,
  I heard a man cry, 'Rags and Bones!'
And little children in the streets
  Went home for bottles, bones and rags,
To barter for his toys and sweets.

And then I thought of grown-up man,
  That in our dreams we trust a God
Will think our rags and bones a boon,
  And give us His immortal sweets
For these poor lives cast off so soon.

The mind, they say, will gather strength
  That broods on what is hard to know:
The fear of unfamiliar things
  Is better than their parents' love,
To teach young birds to use their wings.

But riddles are not made for me,
  My joy's in beauty, not its cause:
Then give me but the open skies,
  And birds that sing in a green wood
That's snow-bound by anemones.