The poem
I've wearied of so many things Adored in youthful days; Music no more my spirit wings, E'en when Master play. For stage and screen I have no heart, Great paintings leave me cold; Alas! I've lost the love of Art That raptured me of old.
Only my love of books is left, Yet that begins to pall; And if of it I am bereft, I'll read no more at all. Then when I am too frail to walk I'll sit out in the sun, And there with Nature I will talk . . . Last friend and dearest one.
For Nature's all in all to me; My other loves are vain; Her bosom brought me forth and she Will take me back again. So I will let her have her way, For I've a feeling odd, Whatever wiser men may say, That she herself is GOD.