Classic Poem

Her whom dark cities never pleased
The wandergeist again hath seized;
She who in gardens loves to bore,
And the moist, rooty soil explore,
Now all the furrows of the deep,
Parterres of waving green, shall sweep.
So shall she pile with richer store
The memories on her harvest-floor;
Red sunsets, and the long, superb
White spires of many a wave-crest herb.
Amid those pleasant, foam-flowered leas,
The unwalled orchards of the seas,
She whose life loves the golden sun
Each ripening dusk shall pluck her one,
Resting each night beneath the broad
Star-budded shadow-boughs of God.