Classic Poem

There's not a breeze that passes
But it seems to bring to me
Some tender, looked-for tidings,
Some message, love, from thee.

There's not a bird that singeth
From wall or bush or tree,
From roof of vine-wreathed balcony
But singeth, love, of thee.

There's not a flower that blossoms,
But your kindly, pensive face,
With loving eyes and heart love
On its painted leaves I trace.

There's not a stream that murmurs
Through wood or grassy lea,
Down mountain side or hollow
But will murmur, love, of thee.

In all of Nature's beauties,
Whatever they may be;
Where'er they are, it matters not,
I see and hear of thee!