A prince he was, yet scorning princely ways,
A priest of nature, simple and sincere,
To whom the wild free things were far more dear
Than trammeling honors gathered of the days
That only served to show him some new phase
In life of flower and tree; whose greatest cheer
Came when the seasons changed and he would hear
The blue bird’s note or see the woods ablaze.
Though joining not in endless race with men,
And caring not to lift life’s heavy load;—
Of quiet life, of solitude though fond,
I love to read the thoughts traced by his pen,
And fancy that I walk Marlborough road
Or rest with him by peaceful Walden pond.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.