Classic Poem

A countless multitude they stand,
A Milky Way on either hand,
Ere yet the earliest Ferns unfold
Or meadow Cowslips count their gold.

White are my dreams, but whiter still
The Bloodroot on the lonely hill;
Lovely and pure my visions rise,
To fade before my yearning eyes;
But on that day I thought I trod
'Mid the embodied dreams of God.

Though frail those flowers, though brief their sway,
They sanctified one perfect day;
And, though the summer may forget,
In my rapt soul they blossom yet.