Classic Poem

Still green on the limbs of the oak were the leaves,
Where the sloe daily grew, with its skin-bloom of grey,
Though in fields, summer-burnt, stood the bent-grass, well brown'd,
And the stubble of wheatfields was withering white,
While sooner the sunlight now sank from the sight,
And longer now linger'd the dim-roaded night.

But bright was the daylight that dried up the dew,
As the foam-water fill'd the wide pool in its fall,
And as I came to climb, by the chalk of the cliff,
The white road full steep to the wayfaring step,
Where along by the hill, with a high-beating breast,
Went the girl or the man to the feast in their best.

There the horse pranced along, with his neck a high bow,
And uptoss'd his broad nose over outspringing knees;
And the ox, with sleek hide, and with low-swinging head;
And the sheep, little knee'd, with a quick-dipping nod;
And a girl, with her head carried on in a proud
Gait of walking, as smooth as an air-swimming cloud.