Classic Poem

O sylvan priest of Nature! rightly thou
Didst read her lessons; on thy solemn brow
Was left the dew of morning, and thine eyes
Saw deepest meaning in the changing skies.
Thine ear attuned to catch her subtlest sound,
Heard quaintest music trilling from the ground.
The robin warbling on the leafy spray,
The lark upsoaring to salute the day,
Were more than simple warblers unto thee,
And e'en the tinest insect on the lea.
Nature, thy mother, taught thy spirit fine
The essence of her cadences divine;
And earth being to thee naught save joy and praise,
Made of thy living rare and wondrous days.