 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
56
GILBERT WHITE
Thou wast a poet, though thou knew'st it not,
Then, on a merry morning, when the thrush
Fluted and fluted briskly in the bush,
And blackbirds whisked along thy garden-plot;
Then, on a merry morning, when the thrush
Fluted and fluted briskly in the bush,
And blackbirds whisked along thy garden-plot;
Didst watch an hour beside thy hanger's foot
The quivering kestrel hung aloft the skies
To mark aught stirring, or with pensive eyes
In cherry-orchards didst forecast the fruit.
The quivering kestrel hung aloft the skies
To mark aught stirring, or with pensive eyes
In cherry-orchards didst forecast the fruit.
And shall I deem it idle thus to scan
The myriad life, and reverently wait,
A patient learner, auguring, behind
The restless hand, the unhesitating mind?
This was thy daily task, to learn that man
Is small, and not forget that man is great.
The myriad life, and reverently wait,
A patient learner, auguring, behind
The restless hand, the unhesitating mind?
This was thy daily task, to learn that man
Is small, and not forget that man is great.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |