Classic Poem

We to the beechen wood will go,
While the hale winds of morning blow,
To taste of idleness awhile,
And let life's troubled currents flow
Afar from our enchanted isle.

There shall be naught to mar our mood
Within the calm and cloistral wood;
An immaterial wizard's wand
Will fill us with beatitude
From crimson leaf and yellowing frond.

There shall be speech enough for us
In the faint thrush note tremulous,
In the low twittering of the wren;
Earth's loveliness, made conscious thus,
Will flood the sense and soul again.

The imminence we shall descry
Of spirit wings that wander by
Upon serene celestial ways,
And be uplifted, you and I,
Above our transitory days!