Classic Poem

A Prose Sonnet Wise are ye, O ancient woods! wiser than man.
Whoso goeth in your paths or into your thickets where no
paths are, readeth the same cheerful lesson whether he be a
young child or a hundred years old. Comes he in good fortune
or bad, ye say the same things, & from age to age. Ever the
needles of the pine grow & fall, the acorns on the oak, the
maples redden in autumn, & at all times of the year the
ground pine & the pyrola bud & root under foot. What is called
fortune & what is called Time by men—ye know them not.
Men have not language to describe one moment of your
eternal life. This I would ask of you, o sacred Woods, when ye
shall next give me somewhat to say, give me also the tune w
wherein to say it. Give me a tune of your own like your winds
or rains or brooks or birds; for the songs of men grow old when
they have been often repeated, but yours, though a man have
heard them for seventy years, are never the same, but always
new, like time itself, or like love.