Classic Poem

Upon the unmown grass at noon
I lay as in a dreamy swoon,
All in a lovely rhapsody,
And seeing pictures in the sky.
The little clouds above me spread
Put out white fingers overhead,
And hand in hand a space would run
Before they melted into one.
The Honeysuckle told the breeze
The very sweetest thing she knew,
And this he whispered to the trees,
Then to my side the wanton flew,
With sportive waft stole gently by,
And turned the clover heads awry.

It was the latter August time;
The year was in her fervid prime:
And as I lay I thought I heard
Wise Nature talking to herself,
Until I spied a Yellowbird
That, like a quaint and black-capped elf,
Clung to a golden lily-plume,
And seemed, somehow, a bird in bloom.

He sang his trillets o'er and o'er,
As cheerily as e'er before,
Contented with his simple art,
While every trillet touched my heart.
I love the bird that praises on
After the Master Thrush is done,
The bird that does not cease to sing
Tho' past the winsome weeks of spring;
And cheerful souls I love that find
Each of God's seasons to their mind.
Just like a merry-hearted boy,
From a wise habit of pure joy,
I pray to Heaven that I may raise,
E'en in the winter of my days,
Some quavering notes of love and praise:
And may not He who made me find
Such simple service to His mind?