Classic Poem

The green grass grows where'er it wills,
On earth's wide-peopled floor;
In valleys low, and on the hills
Which look the valleys o'er.

The river flows, nor feeble man
Its tide directs, nor stays;
But Him from whom the current ran
Forever it obeys.

There is no wind, which man can guide,
Nor tell its certain bound;
Restless the airy currents glide
The earth's wide surface round.

Thou shalt not mark with narrow walls
Thine own vast being's scope;
'Tis farther back than memory calls,
Nor bounded is by hope.

Then fetter not with human creed,
The symbol of an hour,
The mind; which God's own Word has freed,
And his own Spirit's power.

The wind, the tide, the growing grass,
Thy will cannot controul;
Then fix no bounds, it shall not pass,
To the free, living soul.