Classic Poem

Nay, give me back my blossoms,
Said the palm-tree to the Nile;
But the stream passed on unheeding,
With its old familiar smile.

Give back my golden ringlets,
Said the palm-tree to the Nile;
But the stream swept by in silence,
With its dimple and its smile.

With its dimple and its smile it passed,
With its dimple and its smile,
All heedless of the palm's low wail,
That sunny, sunny Nile!

By Rodah's island-garden,
With its ripple and its smile;
By Shûbra's myrtle hedgerows,
It swept, that glorious Nile!

By Gizeh's great palm-forest
It flashed its stately smile;
By Bulak's river-harbour,—
That old majestic Nile!

By pyramid and palace,
With its never-ending smile;
By tomb, and mosque, and mazar,
It flowed, that mighty Nile!

Come, give me back my blossoms,
Sighed the palm-tree to the Nile;
But the river flowed unheeding,
With its soft and silver smile.

With its soft and silver smile it flowed,
With its soft and silver smile,
All heedless of the palm-tree's sigh,
That strange, long-wandering Nile!

It seemed to say, 'tis better far
To leave your flowers to me;
I will bear their yellow beauty on
To the wondering, wondering sea.

'Tis better they should float away
Upon my dusky wave,
Than find upon their native stem
A useless home and grave.

If your sweet flowers remain with you,
Fruitless your boughs must be;
'Tis their departure brings the fruit;
Give your bright flowers to me.

Nay, ask not back your blossoms,
To the palm-tree said the Nile;
Let me keep them, said the river,
With its sweet and sunny smile.

And the palm gave up its blossoms
To its friend so wise and old,
And saw them all, unsighing,
Float down the river's gold.

The amber-tresses vanished,
And the dear spring-fragrance fled;
But the welcome fruit in clusters
Came richly up instead.

'Tis thus we gain by losing,
And win by failure here;
We doff the gleaming tinsel,
The golden crown to wear.

Our sickness is our healing,
Our weakness is our might,
Life is but death's fair offspring,
And day the child of night.

'Tis thus we rise by setting,
Thro' darkness reach our day;
Our own ways hourly losing,
To find the eternal way.

'Tis by defeat we conquer,
Grow rich by growing poor;
And, from our largest givings,
We draw our fullest store.

Then let the blossoms perish,
And let the fragrance go;
All the surer and the larger
Is the harvest we shall know.

All the sweeter and the louder
Our song of harvest-home,
When earth's ripe autumn smileth,
And the reaping-day has come.