Volume 32 / Part 15 — POETRY.—A SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

To me the world's an open book Of 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.