Classic Poem

When that old Vendor, to whose hand
The loveliest volumes come at last,
Shall thumb you for a trace of good
Enduring though your day be past,

Be not abashed at your small worth;
His sense is keen; and there may cling
About your yellowing pages still
Some freshness of the Northern Spring;

Some echo of the whitethroat's song
From lonely valleys blue with rain,
Ringing across the April dusk
Joy and unfathomable pain;

Some glamor of the darling land
Of purple hill and scarlet tree,
Of tidal rivers and tall ships
And green diked orchards by the sea;

A sweep of elm-treed interval
And gravelly floors where herons wade;
A sigh of wind through old gray barns
With eeriest music ever made.

And will no hint of this outweigh
The faulty aim, the faultier skill,
To save our credit when we come
To the Green Dwelling in the Hill?

Ah, trust the Vendor wise and kind!
He knows the outside and the in,
And loves the very least of those
He tosses in the dusty bin.