John R. Tait (1834–1909)

O, THERE are gentle souls on earth imbued

With love of man and nature’s loveliness,

Who, like fair trees uprising ’mid a wood,

Grow toward heaven, the while they ever bless

With pleasing shade and liberal fruitfulness

The seeker at their feet. Warm gratitude

Be theirs, and theirs the soft caress

Of gentlest zephyrs; be their solitude

Made populous with angels, all sublime

Their history, and when the woodmen come,

Transplanting them to that far sunnier clime

Where Eden’s bays will rustle welcomes home,

Then may their lives, as some grand epic tome,

Close with a lofty hope, like an immortal rhyme.