Classic Poem

A spirit in the tree top breathes,
Familiar to my ear;
I hear a sound amid'st its leaves,
My childhood loved to hear;

A rustling in the poplar tall,
Which bends with every blast;
So to my soul its murmurings call,
From out the silent past!

They tell in many an answering tone,
As in my childhood's hour,
Of things, to gross, dull minds unknown,
Of a mysterious Power;

That with the soul, by speechless things,
Doth often converse hold;
And lessons to the spirit brings,
Which books have never told.

For, written on each tree that grows,
The story of its birth;
When perfect from God's hand it rose
Upon the new made earth.

And when the stormy wind doth move,
Or gentle zephyr fan;
It telleth still of Eden's grove
To listening ear of man.