 
Nature, thou earliest gospel of the wise, Thou never-silent hymner unto God; Thou angel-ladder lost amidst the skies, Though at the foot we dream upon the sod; To thee the priesthood of the lyre belong— They hear religion and reply in song. If he hath held thy worship undefiled Through all the sins and sorrows of his youth, Let the man echo what he heard as child From the far hill-tops of melodious Truth, Leaving in troubled hearts some lingering tone Sweet with the solace thou hast given his own. Lord Lytton’s King Arthur. ‘The brain, That forages all climes to hue its cells, Will not distil the juices it has sucked To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, Except for him who hath the secret learned To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take The winds into his pulses.’ James Russell Lowell. HOURS OF EXERCISE |
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