Classic Poem

Now fades the year, and in the sloping fields
The clustering thin ferns are misty red,
And in the wood red leaves are on the sod;

And down the paths among the dusky firs,
And down the shore beside the shining stream,
Come ghosts of other days and walk with us.

Shrill pipes the wind, and all our world grows cold;
The darkness closes round us; on the hearth
The fires of home are kindled like a star.

Old voices call us, old ideals return;
The heart of childhood in us wakes and yearns;
Grant, Lord, it falter not again nor sleep!