Classic Poem

Not always have we prudent sowed the seed
Of thoughts prosaic, as to wisely reap,
The less impassioned memories that keep
Our lives more commonplace in word and deed;
For Fancy sometimes blows upon her reed
And Romance dimly rises, half-asleep,
While over heart and brain and spirit sweep
Faint chords, like wings from mystic cages freed.

Either a song of gladness or of tears
In sunshine rippling or on shadow cast,
Thus to our ears this mocking music seems;
Something to listen for through flying years
Rapt echoes of the future or the past,
The respite and the recompense of dreams.