Classic Poem

True poesy is not in words,
But images that thoughts express,
By which the simplest hearts are stirred
To elevated happiness.

Mere books would be but useless things
Where none had taste or mind to read,
Like unknown lands where beauty springs
And none are there to heed.

But poesy is a language meet,
And fields are everyone's employ;
The wild flower 'neath the shepherd's feet
Looks up and gives him joy;

A language that is ever green,
That feelings unto all impart,
As hawthorn blossoms, soon as seen,
Give May to every heart.

An image to the mind is brought,
Where happiness enjoys
An easy thoughtlessness of thought
And meets excess of joys.

And such is poesy; its power
May varied lights employ,
Yet to all minds it gives the dower
Of self-creating joy.

And whether it be hill or moor,
I feel where'er I go
A silence that discourses more
Than any tongue can do.

Unruffled quietness hath made
A peace in every place,
And woods are resting in their shade
Of social loneliness.

The storm, from which the shepherd turns
To pull his beaver down,
While he upon the heath sojourns,
Which autumn pleaches brown,

Is music, ay, and more indeed
To those of musing mind
Who through the yellow woods proceed
And listen to the wind.

The poet in his fitful glee
And fancy's many moods
Meets it as some strange melody,
A poem of the woods,

And now a harp that flings around
The music of the wind;
The poet often hears the sound
When beauty fills the mind.

So would I my own mind employ,
And my own heart impress,
That poesy's self's a dwelling joy
Of humble quietness.