Classic Poem

The sun and all the stars shine on thy head,
The grass and blossoms all are at thy feet;
Nature's glad pageantries for thee are spread,
Her winds loosed for thee, seminal and sweet;
For thee young morn binds his bright sandals on;
Pale evening leads thee to the mother-fold;
The patient seasons serve thee: none are gone
Of all the glories thronging from of old.
Hoar silence sings thee her primeval lay;
Apt dream wraps round thee her enchanting light;
August companions walk with thee by day,
They share thy bed in darkness of the night:
The full years pour upon thee of their store,
They gather for thy lap. What wouldst thou more?