Classic Poem

I think of thee when night's dark shadows fly,
And morning's ray spreads slowly o'er the hills;
When girt with stars and clouds, the morn on high
Smiles on the birchen grove and gilds the rills.
I hear thee in the gentle music, made
By streams that rush to other streams — by flowers
That whisper to the winds, or catch the showers —
Or green leaves rustling in the vernal glade.
Thee do I see — thee would I recognize —
A pilgrim hasting to a holy shrine;
When mists that seem all-sacred wrap the skies,
With thee I dwell, and I am ever thine;
Thus soul-united — there shall never be
Aught but my grosser nature far from thee.