SONNET XXIII
ART AND NATURE

The works of human artifice soon tire
The curious eye; the fountain’s sparkling rill,
And gardens, when adorned by human skill,
Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire.

But oh! the free and wild magnificence
Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal,
In admiration silent and intense,
The soul of him who hath a soul to feel.

The river moving on its ceaseless way,
The verdant reach of meadows fair and green,
And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene,

These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,—
Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high,
Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.