By Herbert P. Horne
When on my country walks I go,
I never am alone:
Though whom ‘t were pleasure then to know
Are gone, and you are gone;
From every side discourses flow.
There are rich counsels in the trees,
And converse in the air;
All magic thoughts in those and these
Are what is sweet and rare;
And everything that living is.
But most I love the meaner sort,
For they have voices too;
Yet speak with tongues that never hurt,
As ours are apt to do:
The weeds, the grass, the common wort.
