Classic Poem

I KNOW a garden filled with crocuses
On a green slope of this beloved earth;
And here the jocund April brings her mirth
With the first rapture of the budding trees.
Here swarm, in Summer, the bright bandit bees
When the rose lifts its velvet-hooded head,
And here the prayer of Beauty is softly said
In the light wind's incessant litanies.

If men build spires and altars, and upraise
Cathedrals for the worship of their God,
Shall they not likewise mould this place for praise,
And draw this wonder from the common sod? —
Beauty packed still on Beauty, ten-fold strong,
Till silent spaces sing with flowery song!