Classic Poem

Oh , in what lonely valley, dimly seen
Through dusky aisles of immemorial trees,
Or on what lovely island, couched serene
In azure zones of unfrequented seas,
Blossoms the Lotus, fabled flower of ease?

For none have found it in the city street,
Among the wicked weeds that rankle there,
The matted sins that snare unwary feet,
The poison growth of slander, shame and care,
The hemlock leaves of anguish and despair.

Even in the fair, benignant face of heaven,
On sunny plain or solitary hill,
At noon or night, some drop of bitter leaven,
Some sinister surmise, some haunting ill,
Taints the clear cup of nature's quiet still.

It is not bought with wealth, nor bribed by power;
The golden garnerings of insatiate gain
Win not its balm for one oblivious hour;
And stricken kings 'neath canopies of pain,
Clasp burning palms and pray for it in vain.

And oh! not in love's stormy realm it grows—
Love, whose inviolable trust denies
To aching hearts and watching eyes repose;
Love that is sorrow in divine disguise,
Whose mission and reward are sacrifice.

Sweeter than love, or hope, or fame's false charm,
Honors, or gold, or fortune's vain caprice!
No brow has worn the coronal of calm,
No toil-worn slave of time has earned release
This side the grave; the dead alone find peace.