Classic Poem

I stand like one upon a reach of elms,
By the Great River's shore —
Listening for voices from untrodden realms,
Which thrill me evermore.

My staff is lying by a mound of flowers,
My weary feet at rest,
And echoes haunt me in song-ringing showers
From regions of the blest.

A mystic Hand comes through the fading light,
Which I but dimly see,
And takes my lyre, and bears it out of sight, —
The Hand that gave it me.

The sky-taught bird, and lesser shining shapes
That in the hedgerows dwell,
Or gather to the concert of the capes,
Breathe forth their sad farewell.

My Last Lay holds a benediction bright
For friends and patrons kind,
Who filled my hemisphere with purer light,
Which leaves a glow behind.