Robert Louis Stevenson

I know not how it is with you --
I love the first and last,
The whole field of the present view,
The whole flow of the past.

One tittle of the things that are,
Nor you should change nor I --
One pebble in our path -- one star
In all our heaven of sky.

Our lives, and every day and hour,
One symphony appear:
One road, one garden -- every flower
And every bramble dear.