Classic Poem

Ye cannot shut the trees in,
— Ye cannot hide the hills,
Ye cannot wall the seas in,
— Ye cannot choke the rills.
The corn will only nestle
— In the broad arms of the sky,
The clover crop must wrestle
— With the common wind, or die.
And while these stores of treasure
— Are spread where I can see,
By God's high, bounteous pleasure,
— They all belong to me.

Ye cannot shut the trees in,
Ye cannot hide the hills,
Ye cannot wall the seas in,
Ye cannot choke the rills.
The corn will only nestle
In the broad arms of the sky,
The clover crop must wrestle
With the common wind, or die.
And while these stores of treasure
Are spread where I can see,
By God's high, bounteous pleasure,
They all belong to me.