THE NATURALIST
The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,
Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;
The tragedy of life he has not read,
Or deems it but the comedy of fear:
He never lifts his eyes above the ground
To gaze upon the glittering world of stars;
The poet's richest music only mars
The rasping of the locust's strident sound.
And yet I've never seen a wilder light
Glow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,
Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sight
Of some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:
Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,
Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!
DEDICATION
(To H. H. T.)
O soul responsive to the subtlest thought
That flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,
Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyre
To music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught:
O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caught
Love's brimming cup that did her song inspire,
Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,
Who lived in better days when maidens wrought—
To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymes
In memory of happy days of yore,
Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,
The charming rustic maid of olden times
First won our love, less for her lack of lore,
Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.