Classic Poem

Running from the shaded porch,
Where, like an inverted torch
Swings the trumpet flower, the path,
Glorious with the aftermath
Of the early summer days,
Leads us on to pleasant ways.

Through the garden's perfumed space
Where the lily's stately grace,
Shines in all the fair and pure
Whiteness of its garmenture,
And the purple pansies nod
Just above the circling sod.

Velvet leaves of crimson hue,
Sparkling with night's honied dew,
Forming radiant caverns, where
Gauze-winged mites make fragrant lair,
Show the perfect, calm repose
Of that regal bloom, the rose.

Telling of the early spring,
Violets to their sweetness cling,
By a scarcely opened bud
Crimson with high summer's blood,
And the silver larches fret
Over beds of mignonette.

Where the lithe and rustling mass
Of the meadow's ripening grass,
Clings about the garden's edge,
There we see, along the hedge,
Creamy chalices, that hold
Just a speck of yellow gold.

Then the clover blossoms toss,
Where the pathway winds across
Level sweeps, where rise and sink
Flutings of the bob-o-link,
And the thrushes loudly call
Just beyond the tumbling wall.

Heavy with its bearded store,
By the river's winding shore,
Bends the wheat, that ready stands
For the reaper's brawny hands,
Murmuring a melodious song
When the summer wind grows strong.

Up against the mellow skies,
Gradual sloping hills arise,
Wooded by great trees, that screen
With their whispering robes of green,
Winding roads, whose shadows seem
Like the vistas of a dream.

He'e, along the noisy brooks,
Lie the hidden sunlit nooks,
Where the starred anemone
Woos the kisses of the bee,
Blooming just within the shade
By a massive oak tree made.

Dreaming hours are all too fleet,
And we move with lingering feet
Down the slope, and see the sun,
When the meadow paths are won,
Flaming just above the crest
Of a mountain in the west.