Classic Poem

Call not these things inanimate,—the trees,
The grass, the herbs, the flowers. A busy life
Dwells in their seething limbs; and, as soft blooms
Unfold themselves unto the alluring Sun,
Fond music, (which we hear not,) mystic odours,
Accompany their soft confessions. Thus,
One springs and fades,—then others come,—whilst sighs
Exhale from each unto the listening air,
Telling thro' all its course, (from life to death,
From verdant spring-time until autumn sere,)
The same eternal story.