Classic Poem

As a still brook within the woodland's green
Sings softly to itself the live-long day,
Unconscious of its gentle roundelay,
Its open purity and silver sheen--
Knowing not how in all that wild demesne,
Its music is a strain the angels play
And its fair face a jewel amid the gray,
Beshadowed places that it flows between;

So your dear love, a simple forest stream,
Bearing the wealth of all that life can hold,--
Nor ever dreaming of the worth that lies
Deep in your heart--why, you have made it seem
That every empty hour is wrought of gold
And this tear-sodden world, a Paradise!