Classic Poem

I

My orchard blooms with high September light;
Opal and topaz star the burning grass;
The hedgerow-fluted meadows climb the height,
And into gulfs of silver'd azure pass;
The glittering hawk-weed turns to golden glass
The dew'd enamel of the rough pale field;
With laden boughs, a lichen-hoary mass,
Rolls the arch'd canopy of autumn's yield,
And hides a liquid gloom beneath its leafy shield.

II

Come to me now, while all the winds are dumb,
And, floating in this earthly hyaline,
Bring me no whisper of the harsh world's hum,
But, with an indolence attuned to mine,
Pass to my soul the thoughts that wave in thine;
Like those twin brooks that stir our field below
Whose sparkles meet in music; they divine
No first nor second place, but all they know
Is that with doubled strength they hurrying seaward flow.

III

Come to me now; come from the mart of men,
To this monastic court of apple-trees.
See, the gray heron rises from the fen,
And mark! his slower mate by long degrees
Follows and flaps to stiller shades than these;
They wing their lonesome meditative way
To some hush'd elbow of the reedy leas;
O let us lose ourselves in flight, as they
Their heart's sequestered law thus tenderly obey.

IV

Here all is gained we waste our lives demanding;
Here all things meet that, feverish, we pursue;
The peace of God that passeth understanding
Falls on this place, and, like a chrism of dew,
Without a murmur, steeps us thro' and thro';
Here hopes are pure, and aims are cool and high;
Here Pisgah-glints of Heaven may greet our view;
O come and in green light of glory lie,
And talk of song or death, without a flush or sigh.