Classic Poem

I SHALL go down from the stark, gray-stone towers,
Out from this town—the dogs howl at its gates—
The sad clocks strike the eternal hours
And my refuge waits.

I shall go forth with sandals and a crust,
Before the evil, stupid, friendly feet
Have stopped my singing mouth with choking dust,
Stamped from the common street.

For hope has planted vineyards in a place
Of valleys where a heart may lie at ease,
And dreams can dally with a shy, young thought,
Naked among the silver birchen trees.

There Æolus will play a willow harp,
Soft as the autumn light upon a hill,
And dipping swallows leave tight water rings
Which widen with a motion that is still.