Classic Poem

Once more into the open air,
Once more beneath the summer skies,
To fields and woods and waters fair,
I come for all which toil denies.

I loiter down through sun and shade,
And where the waving pastures bloom,
And near the mowers' swinging blade
Inhale the clover's sweet perfume.

The brook which late hath drank its fill,
Out-sings the merry birds above;
The river past the neighbouring hill
Flows like a quiet dream of love.

Yon rider in the harvest plain,
The master of these woods and fields,
Knows not how largely his domain
To me its richest fulness yields.

He garners what he reaps and mows,
But there is that he cannot take,
The love which Nature's smile bestows,
The peace which she alone can make.