Classic Poem

O gentle rushing of the stainless stream,
Haunt of that maiden's dream!
O beech and sycamore, whose branches made
Her dear ancestral shade!
I call you praying; for she felt your power
In many an inward hour;
To many a wild despairing mood ye gave
Some help to heal or save,
And sang to heavenlier trances, long and long,
Your world-old undersong.
Now therefore, if ye may, one moment show
One look of long ago;
Create from waving sprays and tender dew
Her soft fair form anew;
From deepening azure of these August skies
Relume her ardent eyes!
Or if there may not from your sunlit aisle
Be born one flying smile, —
In all your multitudinous music heard
One whisper of one word, —
Then wrap me, forest, with thy blowing breath
In sleep, in peace, in death;
Bear me, swift stream, with immemorial stir,
To love, to God, to her.