Past the Panes

By George Sterling

When I was ill, from my low bed
    I gazed the little window through
    And saw a scanty patch of blue,
Part of the great sky overhead.

And now, grown strong, I climb the hill,
    And from my seat so lone and high
    I see the wide, majestic sky,
And feel the winds, and look my fill.

But all the clouds of that cool dome,
    And all its turquoise far but clear,
    Are not so wonderful and dear
As that blue space I watched at home.

O strange! that humble things should be
    Of stature more than mountains are,—
    The grass diviner than the star,—
A tear-drop deeper than the sea !

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