Classic Poem

When on my country walks I go,
I never am alone:
Though, whom 'twere pleasure then to know,
Are gone, and you are gone;
From every side discourses flow.

There are rich counsels in the trees,
And converse in the air;
All magic thoughts in those and these
And what is sweet and rare;
And everything, that living is.

But most I love the meaner sort,
For they have voices too;
Yet speak with tongues, that never hurt,
As ours are apt to do:
The weeds, the grass, the common wort.