Classic Poem

What is this glory nature makes us feel,
And riots so sweet within us? Can it be
That there with man is kindred mystery
Of being, old heredity
Of bud and leaf, of pulsing plant and tree,
And earth and air; that in some olden speech,—
Ere words had being—doth our spirits reach:
Some essence akin to music, subtle, deep,
That plumbs our souls as dreams melt through our sleep?

Yea, it must be: for often unto me
A fallen leaf hath greater power to stir
Than mighty volumes of earth's history,
Or all the tragedy of life's great blur.
What is it? that so little; plant or flower,
A sunset or a sunrise, gives us wings,
Or opens doors of glory every hour,
To godlike thoughts—and life's imaginings.
Yea, 'tis a greatness that about us lies;
Within our touch—pervading air and sod,
That bounds our being—hidden from our eyes—
But inward, subtle,—guiding men to God.