(That sun though! Isn't it marvelous! The poem is nice enough, but that sun is pure 1960's poetry itself.)
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More think than rain he showers his rays
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Ye he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles,
Into the laddered hayloft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.