Classic Poem

From the early bells of morning,
Till the evening chimes resound,
In the busy world of labour,
For my daily bread I'm bound,
With no hopes of more possessions
Than six scanty feet of ground!

But lay soul hath found an empire,
Hid between two sister hills,
Where she dreams or roams at pleasure,
Finding whatsoe'er she wills;
There sweet Hope her fairest promise
With a lavish hand fulfils.

And the path that windeth thither,
There's no mortal foot may tread,
For it leads to charmèd valleys,
With enchanted blossoms spread,
Under groves of flowering poplars,
Through the violets' purple bed.

Overveiled with vines and water,
Dropt from many a hidden well,
Are the rocks which make the gateway; —
And the water's silver bell,
Keeps the warder, Silence, wakeful
At the gate of Hazel Dell!

Nor may any pass the warder
Till the watchword they repeat;
They must go arrayed like angels,
In their purity complete;
And the stave-supported pilgrim
Lay the sandals from his feet!

And within the purple valley,
Where perpetual summer teems,
Whisper silken-tonguèd runnels,
Melting into larger streams,
Winding round through sun and shadow,
Like a gentle maiden's dreams.

Then let labour hold me vassal,
Since my soul can scorn his reign!
Even fetters for the body
Were but bands of sand, and vain,
While the spirit thus can wander,
Singing through its own domain!

In the long still hours of darkness,
Stretched from weary chime to onime;
Thus beside my own Castalie
I can gather flowers of rhyme,
And with all their fresh dew freighted,
Fling them on the stream of time!