Classic Poem

I FOUND a fold of Nature's robe,
Where violets never dreamed of man,
And Bacchanalian buttercups,
With cups upheld, cried: “Health to Pan!”—

And where the wealthy miller-bee
Hummed miserly in dusty gold,
Gorging himself with stolen sweets
The ivory trumpet lilies hold.

And there I laid me down to sleep,
Folded on Nature's mother breast,
And through the mazy ways of dreams,
I wandered to the realms of Rest.