Classic Poem

There is a range of little barren hills,
Skirting a dark and purely idle stream,
Which winds among the fields, as in a dream
Of weary man a heavy sorrow rills
The down-prest spirit; whoso buildeth mills
To break the grain on it? Yet never deem
These barren little hills low as they seem—
They draw away from us a host of ills.

A lone flat rock is sleeping at its ease
Upon their topmost line, beneath a wind
That oozes from the sea, nor touches trees
In that bare spot, but murmurs to the mind
A misty tune of gray felicities—
Salt Ocean's heart, thy pulse is strangely kind!