Classic Poem

I SIT on the rocky headland
That juts from the queer old town,
Where the lichen-covered ledges
To meet the tides run down.

There are voices of children ringing
Through the still morning air,
And a lusty cock is crowing,
And, down on the water there,

A single rower is fretting
The sea with a gentle sound,
And the breath of an ended summer
Is whispering around.

The grasses seem to hear it,
And shudder as if with pain;
It is full of a sad foreboding
Of the Jotuns' icy reign.

The dories sway at their moorings,
As they catch the fitful breeze;
And they sidle against each other,
As if themselves to please.

But 'tis only me they are pleasing, —
The picture is all for me, —
And the gray clouds sailing over,
And the sunlight on the sea;

And the white sails of the vessels,
That gleam in the morning sun;
And the sounds of far-off labor,
And the shadows cold and dun;

And the butterfly, knowing surely
That summer is ended for him;
And the bee, that must wander widely
To fill his sacs to the brim.

And mine is the insect's rapture,
And mine is the sea-gull's pride,
As he sees his whiteness mirrored
Far down in the gleaming tide.

And all the ships in the offing,
Outward and inward bound,
Are mine, and with my ventures
Go sailing the world around.

And these are but one day's riches,
The gatherings of an hour;
But every day is mighty,
Each night is a night of power.

For all of the brown old planet,
All of the deep blue sky,
All that the ear can harken,
All that can fill the eye,

Is mine by the law of Beauty;
And men may give or withhold,
When He who is God of Beauty
Her secret to us has told.