Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

 
There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,
Ere it descends upon the earth,
And thither every deed returns,
Which in the generous bosom burns.

There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.

And ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
And tread of high-souled men go by,
Their thoughts conversing with the sky. 
               -Henry David Thoreau
        
more poems:
Anne Sexton
Edgar Allan Poe
Emily Dickinson
E. E. Cummings
Henry David Thoreau
John Keats
Langston Hughes
Lascelles Abercrombie
Pablo Neruda
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Robert Frost
Sylvia Plath
William Butler Yeats
William Shakespeare
William Wordsworth