Classic Poem

Spent my days o'er leas of deep swollen fields;
I sat high 'pon a hill viewing earth's
Blossom craft, still glued my
Attention from its pleasure growth,
Storing lofty visions; for after
Inspiration's treat of original's claim,
This wide plant about standeth still
And heaven, its every blossom, waits,
Heedeth no profession's turn; but mine
Must fare in blitheful spirit, roam
And lay conscience 'pon my slumber deep
And soar beyond power's own. That Nature
Doth bleat, who sings now, if not
Content?—O being of human kind!