  The rustling leaves above me, The breezes sighing round me, A network glimpse of bluest sky To meet the upturned seeing eye, The greenest lawn beneath me, Loved flowers and birds to greet me, A well-kept house of ancient days To tell of human nature's ways,— Oh happy, happy hour! Whence comes all this to bless me, The soft wind to caress me, The life which does my strength renew For purer visions of the true? Alas! no one can tell me. Let even wisest questions cease While I breathe in such life and peace This happy, happy hour. Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass. |
|
