Classic Poem

They rose in beauty on the plains
Through which my childhood danced in glee,
When roses wreathed my idle chains,
And holy angels talked with me.

They rose sublime on mountain heights
Whereto my ardent youth aspired,—
Through silver days and golden nights,
Ere yet my heart grew dull and tired.

Their stately towers were all aflame
With rosy hues of morning light;
For hope, and love, and power, and fame
Burned on their peaks and made them bright.

Now brown and level fields expand
Around me, as I hold my way
Through barren hills on either hand,
And under skies of sober gray.

No radiant towers in distance rise,
On soaring mountain strong and glad;
No gorgeous banners flaunt the skies,—
But all the scene is calm and sad.

Yet here and there, along the plain,
A flower lights up the fading grass;
And whispering wind and rustling rain
Make gentle music as I pass.

And now and then a happy face,
And now and then a cheerful thought
Give to the scene a pensive grace,
The sweeter that it comes unsought.

And, looking past all earthly ill,
I dimly see my place of rest,—
A lowly palace, dark and still,
And sacred to the weary guest.