It makes no difference abroad,
The seasons fit the same,
The mornings blossom into noons,
And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,
The brooks brag all the day;
No blackbird bates his jargoning
For passing Calvary. Auto-da-fé and judgment
Are nothing to the bee;
His separation from his rose
To him seems misery.

Nature, p. 120 - Collected Poems (1993)