Classic Poem

" LEFT , from the oak
To the mill race brook. "
So the deed runs
In the town clerk's book.

But the oak is gone
And the turf grows over
The mill race ditch
With grass and clover.

Little may stand
For a title's mark,
If the earth shall change
Or a star go dark.

Then leave your son
No land or treasure,
That the foot must pace
Or the scales measure;

But an eye to behold
And a heart that lifts
And strength to fulfill, —
These be your gifts.