Classic Poem

We strolled beside the lazy brook,
We learned of singing birds to sing,
Our play-house was an ivied nook,
A drooping vine, our rustic swing.

We marked each wild plant, — where it grew;
The redbud's bloom, the ginseng's root,
The spicewood's fragrant bark, we knew, —
The honey-locust's podded fruit.

We knew the arum's mottled scape
And scarlet seed, the plump pawpaw,
The fruitage of the woodland grape,
The shining clusters of the haw.

Deterred by neither chill nor damp,
As soon as early spring returned,
The wonders of the sugar-camp
With eager diligence we learned.

We knew by heart what Bryant sung
Of autumn's melancholy days,
And in our artless, prattling tongue
Sincerely spoke the poet's praise.

We caught the music of the strain,
We felt its spirit, and we knew
The jay, the robin, and the wren,
The goldenrod and aster, too.

One August, mournful time, alas!
I played unhappy, played alone;
The summer flowers, leaves, and grass
Were withering beneath the sun.

The awful days rolled slowly on,
By lingering drought and heat oppressed,
From dawn till dark, from dark till dawn,
And faintlier heaved her failing breast.

I might not see her, so they said;
But once at early morn I crept
By stealth unto her snowy bed,
To see my sister as she slept.

To look upon her in her sleep,
I came with half-suspended breath;
Ah woe, — her slumber was too deep;
It was the dreamless sleep of death.

Her face was pale, her hands were chill,
I could not warm them in my own;
Her eyes were closed, her lips were still,
She could not hear my piteous moan.

Her grave was made; the summer passed,
The earth was wet with autumn rain,
Followed by dreary winter's blast;
Then joyous spring returned again.

I wandered lonely by the brook;
I could not sing with singing birds;
Our play-house in the ivied nook
Was desolate without her words.

The choicest fruit of wood and field
Had lost some flavor unto me;
The fragrance that the flowers yield
Was fainter than it used to be.

And when October's pensive haze
Along the sad horizon hung,
I could not utter Bryant's praise,
For weeping at the words he sung.

But nightly to my mournful bed
Came tranquil thoughts and soothing dreams;
Her hand in mine, we seemed to tread
The margins of celestial streams.

And often on a peaceful day
My listening soul would deem it heard
Her golden harp remotely play
In sinless mansions of the Lord.