Classic Poem

FRANK L. STANTON

HE sings: and his song is heard,
Pure as a joyous prayer,
Because he sings of the simple things —
The fields, and the open air,
The orchard-bough, and the mocking-bird,
And the blossoms everywhere.

He sings of a wealth we hold
In common ownership —
The wildwood nook, and the laugh of the brook,
And the dewdrop's drip and drip,
The love of the lily's heart of gold,
And the kiss of the rose's lip.

The universal heart
Leans listening to his lay
That glints and gleams with the glimmering dreams
Of children at their play —
A lay as rich with unconscious art
As the first song-bird's of May.

Ours every rapturous tone
Of every song of glee,
Because his voice makes native choice
Of Nature's harmony —
So that his singing seems our own,
And ours his ecstasy.

Steadfastly, bravely glad
Above all earthly stress,
He lifts his line to heights divine,
And, singing, ever says, —
This is a better world than bad —
God's love is limitless.

He sings: and his song is heard,
Pure as a joyous prayer,
Because he sings of the simple things —
The fields, and the open air,
The orchard-bough, and the mocking-bird,
And the blossoms everywhere.