BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
To me the world's an open bookOf sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running brook
That sings its way toward the sea:
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass.
And in the cool fresh evening breeze
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.
The flowers below—the stars above—
In all their bloom and brightness given,
Are, like the attributes of love,
The poetry of earth and heaven.
Thus Nature's volume, read aright,
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light,
And all the world with poetry.