Classic Poem

I love to loiter by the old oak tree,
Where waters ripple over clean white stones,
And cresses, mint with feathered fern grown high.
In such a place the peaceful thoughts will come;
There is no hurry there where nature plays.
Soft gentle breezes wave the grass and sedge;
White fluffy clouds pass overhead and roll.
Now dreaming, I hear the cricket's gay song.
O river bank you charm me always so.