It was fifty years ago <br />In the pleasant month of May, <br />In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, <br />A child in its cradle lay. <br /> <br />And Nature, the old nurse, took <br />The child upon her knee, <br />Saying: 'Here is a story-book <br />Thy Father has written for thee.' <br /> <br />'Come, wander with me,' she said, <br />'Into regions yet untrod; <br />And read what is still unread <br />In the manuscripts of God.' <br /> <br />And he wandered away and away <br />With Nature, the dear old nurse, <br />Who sang to him night and day <br />The rhymes of the universe. <br /> <br />And whenever the way seemed long, <br />Or his heart began to fail, <br />She would sing a more wonderful song, <br />Or tell a more marvellous tale. <br /> <br />So she keeps him still a child, <br />And will not let him go, <br />Though at times his heart beats wild <br />For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; <br /> <br />Though at times he hears in his dreams <br />The Ranz des Vaches of old, <br />And the rush of mountain streams <br />From glaciers clear and cold; <br /> <br />And the mother at home says, 'Hark! <br />For his voice I listen and yearn; <br />It is growing late and dark, <br />And my boy does not return!'<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fiftieth-birthday-of-agassiz-birds-of-passage-flight-the-first/
