Classic Poem

He sits and dreams a brave dream of To Be:
And, while he dreams, hopes are realities,
And the fresh glory of the eastern skies
Holds not a cloud that his glad eye can see.
While, in his gorgeous vision, fame and gold
And love, and houses in broad acres, where
Is all can make life glorious and fair
To him, whose days are young, its meanings not yet told.

He sits with backward look at what has been;
But little of his dreams, for they are fled.
The winds sigh over withered hopes, now dead,
Like fallen leaves that in the spring were green.
The fame and gold,—oh, yes, he has them now,
And houses and broad acres; but all this,
How gladly would he give them for one kiss,
Could lips, now cold, but press it on his brow!