The world's a beautiful world to-day,

A flame of gold and a dusk of gray,

Where Autumn leaves toss their gaudy crests

O'er still deep lanes, where the twilight rests.

Just overhead as I ride along

A hopeful thrush charms his thought to song,

And all that's joyous within me springs

To meet the promise of which he sings.

Away to Heaven the melting view

Is soft with raptures of endless blue;

The trees and meadows, the hills and plains,

Like music woven of countless strains

Submerge, entwine, till the eye can see

No shade that is not a harmony.

As part of nature's most perfect whole

Each humble object conceives a soul,

No tiny flower in the distance lost,

But gives its colour, nor counts the cost;

No drop of dew, but its feeble ray

An atom cast in the pearly gray

Is shining there, unperceived, content,

A dim star set in earth's firmament.

My horse treads gently, and makes scarce sound,

His hoofs sink deep in the marshy ground,

Yet 'neath the touch of my curbing rein

I feel the youth in his veins complain,

He lifts his head, and his eager eyes

Gaze far away where the moorland lies,

He whinnies often, as though to say

I would be free on this perfect day!

He too is filled with a happiness

His dumb soul treasures but can't express,

And in that gladness of wind and sun

I know my beast and myself are one.

The way is lonely, no passer by

Disturbs the stillness, my horse and I

Possess the earth, and the rippling air

Divine elixir to banish care

Has brought new strength to my heart and mind,

And swept all sorrowful things behind.

Oh! Joy of living when youth is ours!

Oh! Earth my Mother, thy fragrant bowers

Could they be fairer if Angels trod

Beneath their trees at the will of God?

Could fabled Heaven e'er compensate

For one such day, when the year is late,

And all the Summer has come to dwell

In long warm moments of dim farewell?

When skies are pale with the tears that bless

The soil, in falling for happiness?

And winds are fragrant with scent that flows

From out the bosom of some lone rose?

And brooks are drowsy with dusty gleams,

And languid thoughts of their winter dreams?

The fields are vital, and nude, and gray

With future promise of fruitful clay?

Ah! no, my being could not believe,

My heart desire, nor my soul conceive,

A world more perfect, more dear, more true,

Than this fair Eden I'm riding through.