Classic Poem

Dear Mother Nature! Sing to thee,
Who hast so often sung to me?
Much rather would I choose to listen
Unto thy softest whispered word,
In murmuring leaves and waters heard,
Where sifting moonbeams glance and glisten,
Than mar the concord with my voice.
Alas, that I have but one choice,
For I am mured in city walls.
Imprisoned thus, my spirit calls
To thee of whom I only spy
The splendor of thy loving eye —
The solemn, sweet, protecting sky —
Still bending, tender as of yore.
And yet, a brighter look it wore
In days when on my native hills
I whistled away my boyish ills,
Merrily drove the kine afield,
Breathing the sweet perfume of dew,
While all my joyous nature knew
The blessings that May mornings yield!

Kind Mother Nature! I but send
A letter thus to thee, to say
That though in city streets I stray,
I love thee yet, my earliest friend;
For memory makes me even now
Feel thy cool kisses on my brow.
What time I leave the dusty streets,
I feel like one who, homeward bound,
Leaves boat or car, and, looking round,
The welcome of a dear face meets.
For even thus thy beauty greets
My hungry eyes, a welcome home;
While field, and stream, and forest dome
Break out in music, speech, and smiles
That lure me down the forest aisles
Where wandering winds their trumpets blow,
And make me worship ere I know.
Oh, take us when our hearts are wrong
And let us hear thy soothing song!
When our dull souls thy spirit spurn,
Like weather vanes that will not turn,
Set us up on a breezy hill;
There, counter-currents lost below,
To trim ourselves, and pointing, show
Our faces where God's winds do blow!

How I remember all thy dresses,
Fair Mother Nature! How thy tresses
Swing in the wind from forest trees,
And how thou wearest birds and bees
And flowers to suit each changing season —
Quaint ornaments that show thy reason,
When trailing emerald robes the hills,
The arbutus thy bosom fills;
In shimmering clouds of Summer drest,
A wild rose lies upon thy breast;
In Autumn's spangled red and gold,
Thy arms a load of apples hold;
Or when in snow thy beauty hides,
A snowbird on thy shoulder rides!
Oh, well I love the somber grays
Thou wearest on the cloudy days!
Anon, when evening skies are bare,
The diamonds glitter in thy hair,
And, nestling in a cloud of lace,
Thy crescent pin shines in its place;
Then is thy step as blithe and gay
As maiden's on her bridal day!
Thus, ever varying, yet the same,
The years go by and leave thee young
But not thy children; we are stung
Soon to old age. Are we to blame?

Sweet Mother Nature! Right thou art,
Time draws no wrinkles on the heart.
Across the soul's serene expanse
More beauteous mornings yet may glance,
And merrier choirs in statelier trees
Freight with rare melody the breeze!
The sunrise gilds the robin's breast
Upon the maple's top at rest,
And lest I do the robin wrong,
I pause and listen for his song.