The golden butterfly flits, ‘Neath the sunny glow of day; While down the cool of dim-lit woods The raptured wildlings play. With laughter soft within their hearts, The flowers blushing bloom, As beams of warmth light up the dark— Nature’s perfumed room. And on her gleaming surfaces, The brook sings out its song; A symphony of gentle peace, Where wild things all belong. In every leaf’s soft murmured sigh, In every petal’s fall, Resides the music of nature’s breath, Her tender voice—our all.

• Elizabeth Barrett Browning