Classic Poem

They talk of rainbows in the sky, and blossoms on the earth,
They sing the beauty of the stars in songs of love and mirth;
They say the mountain sod is fair — they tell of dewdrops bright,
They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon that cheers the night.
I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see
The lustre drop on green-hill top, or fruit upon the tree:
I've prayed to have my lids unsealed, but 'twas not to behold
The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of gold.
No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and sun,
For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my gentle one.

I hear the music others deem most eloquent and sweet,
The merry lark above my head — the cricket at my feet;
The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden while they ring,
The robin in the winter-time — the cuckoo in the spring;
But never do I think those tones so beautiful as thine,
When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that heart is mine.
There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice,
As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy happy voice;
And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or sun
Can ever be so bright as thou my true, my gentle one.