Though autumn, yet you somehow feel
That blue-bells blossomed here in spring;
No artist that has ever lived
Could paint the song that thrushes sing;
And yet it seems that one could hear
The thrushes from those birches near.
There is a something that invites
The weary breast to heave a sigh;
There is a house behind that hill;
That flowery path that wanders by,
Has often been by lovers trod
Who plighted troth alone with God.
True art, like nature, ever bears
Suggestions of some higher thing;
As more than form or tint of bird
We prize the song he stops to sing:
So genius is the power to guide,
And show the heart, life's nobler side.