Who does not love true poetry,
He lacks a bosom friend
—To walk with him
—And talk with him,
And all his steps attend.

Who does not love true poetry—
Its rhythmic throb and swing
—The treat of it
—The sweet of it,
Along the paths of Spring:

Its joyous lilting melody
In every passing breeze,
—The deep of it,
—The sweep of it,
Through hours of toil or ease;

Its grandeur and sublimity—
Its majesty and might—
—The feel of it,
—The peal of it,
Through all the lonely night;

Its tenderness and soothing touch;
Like balm on evening air,
—That feelingly
—And healingly
Cures all the hurts of care:

Who does not love true poetry
Of sea and sky and sod—
—The height of it
—The might of it—
He has not known his God.

Who does not love true poetry,
He lacks a bosom friend
—To walk with him
—And talk with him,
And all his steps attend.

Who does not love true poetry—
Its rhythmic throb and swing
—The treat of it
—The sweet of it,
Along the paths of Spring:

Its joyous lilting melody
In every passing breeze,
—The deep of it,
—The sweep of it,
Through hours of toil or ease;

Its grandeur and sublimity—
Its majesty and might—
—The feel of it,
—The peal of it,
Through all the lonely night;

Its tenderness and soothing touch;
Like balm on evening air,
—That feelingly
—And healingly
Cures all the hurts of care:

Who does not love true poetry
Of sea and sky and sod—
—The height of it
—The might of it—
He has not known his God.