Classic Poem

SWEET grows the world to-day and fair,
Seen through the Spring-time's lovely sheen—
A tender mist of golden-green
That veils the earth and fills the air.

And lightly, softly blows the breeze,
With blossom-odors interblent,
And interwoyen with their scent
The murmurous hum of golden bees.

And mingling with their braided balm,
A voice of dreamy sweetness near
Half sings, half sighs, in plaintive cheer,
A strain that linketh calm with calm.

On Nature's heart mine own I rest;
“Peace, troubled soul,” she soft entreats:
“Peace, troubled soul,” the voice repeats,
In the low psalm that suits me best.

And through the mist of faith I see
A vision fair of One who stands
And stretches out His piercèd hands,
Saying, “My peace I give to thee.”