Classic Poem

The stirring of a feathery cloud
May wake a thought of richest worth,
The dew upon the lily's rim
To deepest reverie give birth.

Half glimpses caught in idle hours
Of shifting lights upon a stream,
Some sudden glory in the skies
May give the soul a magic dream.

The scent of wood-glades when glad Spring
Is penciling the dainty leaves,
Like subtlest music, round the heart
A web of strange enchantment weaves.

The robin's carol to the dawn
Soothes like the answer to a prayer;
The cushat's melancholy plaint
May change our mood quite to despair.

In Nature's wondrous orchestra,
The quiver of a single strain
Will poise a thought, and give the soul
Most exquisite repose or pain.