Classic Poem

Beyond the meadow still where sweeps
The greensward to the spreading sun—
And halfway down a sheltering slope
A little village stands—to me
So fair that tho' a stranger until now
My heart leaps to it as an infants home—

How could I rest while suns & moons
Roll by, content that yonder hill
Should take the footfall of the dawn;
Yon vale the days' decline, content
With all circling seasons as they pass
For they would not deny me my mild dreams.

And here in pastoral calm my life
In no rude contrast with its grave,
Might ebb in song and fill my ears
With quiet melodies—and here—
Ah! foolish thought both heart & will desire
More than a moment's yearning can divine—

For here as into every nook
Would rumour come of man & all
His triumphs & disasters—all
His high ambitious hopes—and here
My soul would yearn towards him most & fly
From hill to hill with its branch of peace.

But let me take the joy that smiles
And pluck it like a passing flower
Whose bloom when withered blooms in thought
Whose perfume never dies—The scene
When grander Images have past away
Will be a messenger of peace to me.

The windmill on the windy height
The watermill that ploughs the stream
The trembling of the village spire
Against the western flame—the haze
Of stillness over all will picture forth