Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|THE UNCULTURED MAN.|
He does not see nor understand
The beauty everywhere,
Unveiled by Nature's lavish hands,
Which cultured minds can see and hear.
He does not see the beauty grand,
Of towering hills and mountains;
He's heedless to the murmur and
The gush of brooks and fountains.
He's listless to the songs of birds;
He does not hear their story
Which cultured ears have daily heard,
Declaring Nature's glory.
To him no lesson is revealed
By the flowers' silent preaching;
Not e'en by "lilies of the field,"
Rich in Scriptural teaching.
The beauteous heavens, star-gemmed,
The restless, roaring ocean,
With emerald islands diademed;
Yet no poetic notion
Doth ever in his bosom rise:
Nor does he stop to ponder
O'er Nature's many mysteries,
Wrapped in deep thought and wonder.
What matter if the western skies
With sunset splendors glow?
What matter if the night-wind sighs
Plaintively, sad and low?
Sunsets to him merely augur
The weather of to-morrow;
The night wind's sigh, no mystic spell
Casts over him of sorrow.
He does not meditate and brood
O'er things grand and sublime,
When gazing on the budding wood
And fields in gay springtime.
Summer, with myriads of flowers
Bedecking hill and plain,
And cool, dark, shady, leafy bowers,
And fields of waving grain.
Grave Autumn with her mellow haze,
Her garnered fruit and grain,
Her sturdy forest trees ablaze
With red and yellow leaves.
And Winter, with each brook and pond
Spread with a pearly sheet
Of ice, and every tree bough donned
In snowy whiteness neat.
They come and go, he heeds them not,
The beauties of each season;
From them no lesson has he got,
No lofty thought or reason.
What matter if the earth is fraught
With poetry and music;
He hears, he sees, he feels it not,
Nor does he care, poor rustic!
The beauties all about his way,
He cares not to embrace,
But plods along from day to day,
All things just commonplace.