  Who Nature loves by Nature is beloved. She makes him gentle, and she keeps him fair; By woods and waters where her treasures are Within his hand she lays a hand ungloved. For him no stream is stopped, no mountain moved, No bird-song hushed, nor any branch made bare; Useless the archer’s shaft, the fowler’s snare; Nor for his feet is any pathway grooved. So Gibson lived and wrote, and drew and dreamed, Whose sun too early dropped adown the west, Whose every day with purest visions teemed, That gave another’s day a fresher zest; And like dear Nature’s self he often seemed To draw no lines twixt labor, play and rest. Rossiter Johnson. |
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