Lines on Chaucer

No human pomp suggests his name, No human pride builds up his fame, But croft and meadow every where His presence and his charm declare.

He was an echo of the woods, A breath of vernal solitudes, An annalist of brooks and birds, Interpreter of sylvan words;

He worshipt nature where he trod And still, through nature, worshipt God; And spotless as the flower he praises His name still blossoms with the daisies.