Classic Poem

'Tis Nature's garden, that she made
For Love and noble Thought;
A wonder of green boughs and shade,
Through which a stream she brought,
With bubbling wells to cool the glade.

It were a place, if any were,
To tell the sacred sheaves
Of garnered joys, within this fair,
This quiet church of leaves,
Unto the calm, the patient air.

But Love, and Life, and holy Song,
Already fade, and lose
Their early zest; and soonest wrong
That, which we most would choose;
And mingle with the common throng.