Great is the sun, and wide he goes br Through empty heaven with repose; br And in the blue and glowing days br More thick than rain he showers his rays. br br Though closer still the blinds we pull br To keep the shady parlour cool, br Yet he will find a chink or two br To slip his golden fingers through. br br The dusty attic spider-clad br He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; br And through the broken edge of tiles br Into the laddered hay-loft smiles. br br Meantime his golden face around br He bares to all the garden ground, br And sheds a warm and glittering look br Among the ivy's inmost nook. br br Above the hills, along the blue, br Round the bright air with footing true, br To please the child, to paint the rose, br The gardener of the World, he goes.