Classic Poem

In idle hours to backward look and see
The tracery of wind across the grass,
To mark the clouds that float in snowy mass
With myriad filmy pennants flowing free;
To hear a robin in the maple tree,
And see the pool's reflection like a glass
Where light and shade alternate come and pass,
With muffled mellow murmurings of the bee:

This is to drink of nature's brimming cup
In woodland nooks of slumberous solitude,
Where summer holds a golden beaker up
And all the earth by beauty's self is wooed;
Do you remember where the dead leaf fell,
The violet's blue, the empty acorn shell?