Classic Poem

The trailing clouds hang low;
Their misty folds drag slow
O'er the ground;
And the rain makes, as it falls
On the roof and on the walls,
Scarce a sound.

I sit and idly dream,
While the rain-drops drip and stream
From the eaves;
And memory's folded book
Slowly opens, and I look
Through the leaves.

I cannot see the town.
Nor the prairies, yellow-brown,
Through the mist;
But these pages, blurred with years,
I can read them through my tears,
When I list.

I see here as I look
Through the pages of the book,—
Flinching not,—
Gray shadows, glints of sun;
Lost battles, battles won;
Woman's lot.

Green paths, with sunshine sweet;
Rough steeps, to aid my feet;
Broken staves;
Love's rapture, wildly throbbing,
The grief, as wildly sobbing
Over graves.

Must ill all good alloy?
Will sorrow, chasing joy,
Never rest?
Ah, why the bitter-sweet?
And why the bleeding feet?
God knows best.

Listen! A tolling bell
Sobs out its mournful knell
Over there;
And I know that hearts are aching—
Perhaps some heart is breaking—
Over there.

At last the clouds are lifted,
And sunset gold is sifted
To the plain.
Oh, peace for those who grieve!
May it come like light at eve