Classic Poem

O stream, descending to the sea,
Thy mossy banks between,
The flowrets blow, the grasses grow,
The leafy trees are green,

In garden plots the children play,
The fields the labourers till,
And houses stand on either hand,—
And thou descendest still.

O life, descending unto death,
Our waking eyes behold
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
Companions young and old;

Strong purposes our minds possess,
Our hearts affections fill,
We toil and earn, we seek and learn,—
And thou descendest still.

O end, to which our currents tend,
Inevitable sea,
To which we flow, what do we know,
What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore
As we our course fulfil;
Scarce we divine a sun will shine
And be above us still.