Brook Farm
Down the long road, bent and brown,
Youth, that dearly loves a vision,
Ventures to the gate Elysian,
As a pilgrim from the town.
Coming not so late, so far,
Rocks and birches! for your story;
Not to prate on vanished glory
Where of old was quenched a star;
Where of old, in lapse of toil,
Time but mocked a prayer pathetic;
Where the flower of good prophetic
Starved in our New England soil.
Ah! to Youth with radiant eyes,
For whom grief is not, nor daunting,
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