Classic Poem

His heart should sing from dawn to sunset flare,
Wherever foot may tread his path may lie,
His pack must be too small to hold a care
Who takes for guide the gipsy butterfly.

At morn the thrush, at noon the tinkling brook,
At eve the cricket choir shall cheer his way;
His eye shall find delight in every nook;
The squirrels—merry gnomes in red or gray,—

The clover bent beneath the booming bees,
The woodchuck, sober monk in russet clad,
The dragon-fly athwart the culverkeys
Shall wake his love of things and make him glad.

Again along a checkered road I swing
Through friendly woods and fields where daisies nod,
While still before me drifts on vagrant wing
The butterfly whose beauty praises God.