Jones Very (1813–1880)

THOU tellest truths unspoken yet by man,

By this thy lonely home and modest look;

For he has not the eyes such truths to scan,

Nor learns to read from such a lowly book.

With him it is not life firm-fixed to grow

Beneath the outspreading oaks and rising pines,

Content this humble lot of thine to know,

The nearest neighbor of the creeping vines;

Without fixed root he cannot trust like thee

The rain will know the appointed hour to fall,

But fears lest sun or shower may hurtful be,

And would delay, or speed them with his call;

Nor trust like thee, when wintry winds blow cold,

Whose shrinking form the withered leaves enfold.