Classic Poem

A FANTASIE .

Down to the voiceful stream I go,
No more of earthly care have I,
No more I hear but songs that flow
In liquid cadence softly by.
No more I feel but summer's glow
That fills the arching of the sky.

No more I see but branches green
That breathe the sunbeams as they sway,
That wave and weave, a shadowed screen,
Betwixt me and the passing day.
No more my heart shall seek to glean
The seeming joys that hedge the way.

The breath of fields — the song of birds,
The lifting leaf, the dancing beam,
The landscape wide, the grazing herds,
The moving music of the stream,
These do not call for wasted words,
These shall enfold me in their dream.

No more to sigh for love, nor seek
The clasp of white and dimpled hands,
No more to turn when lips shall speak,
Nor stay when some soft eye commands
No more to bend with spirit meek
Fast held in slight and silken bands.

No more! No more! The whirling earth
May spin to meet the burning sun;
I shall not hear the sounds of mirth,
Nor know when triumphs shall be won;
I have no house, nor home, nor hearth;
With hopeless hoping I have done.

Oh welcome voices of the mead,
Where bends the clover blooming red,
Sing on, for I will give you heed,
Though comfort from my heart be fled,
And though my fainting soul hath need.
I ask not for withholden bread.

For best is rest, when all is over;
Best is sleep when all is said:
Under the dream of the waving clover,
Sweet is the brook's song overhead,
The partridge cry, the whirr of the plover.
The heart — will it start, though the dust be dead?

Down to the silent stream I go,
No more of earthly care have I;
The waters gentlier still shall flow,
The willows softer still shall sigh;
No more to fear — no more to know —
The slow steps of the years go by.