Classic Poem

— A little cottage stands
Half hid in climbing green;
Spreading along the jagged eaves
And o'er the roof 'tis seen.

Before it are a few meek flowers,
Yet garden there is none;
But grass with flowers, — as Art at first
His toil had there begun;

Then shamed by Nature, fled, and left
These flowrets to her hand,
That hence to wild flowers changing seem,
Where 'mid the grass they stand.

A grandame at the open door
Sits knitting in the sun;
Who looks at her, need not be told
Of friends and kindred, young and old,
That vanished one by one.

Bloom to her cheek returns no more,
And soon her smiles depart;
But he that sees no beauty there, —
He hath none in his heart.

A little child is sitting near,
A white lamb by the child, —
And surely it must be sweet lore
Its eyes and lips are spelling o'er,
To read that grandame mild.

. . . . A ruined cottage stands
Covered with climbing green;
Thatching with leaves the broken roof,
Then creeping back 'tis seen.

An old man sits within the door;
His hair is white and thin,
But his mild and winning eye is bright;
If not the fire it hath the light
Of early youth therein.

Close by his head the little birds
Carol their morning hymn;
Above the door, on the old woodbine,
They sing at every morning's shine,
They have no fear of him.

He is getting deaf, but hears them well;
They sing close at his ear:
Each day he blesses God in heart
That he the birds can hear.

And they say of that old lonely man,
That he could tell strange things,
And sometimes speaks of things beheld
In world-wide wanderings.

And if it now were eventide,
The children you might see
Turn hither on their way from school
To sit upon his knee,

And hear from him such counsel sweet,
As makes them wish to hear;
And better tales, they all aver,
Than they in books can speare.