Classic Poem

It was thy book; it now is mine:
But presently I must resign
My book, — so cherished, — and become
As thou art, blind, and deaf, and dumb,
A Stranger; and my book will go,
The Lord knows where! But this I know —
Where'er it goes, it ne'er will be
More lov'd and priz'd than 'tis by me:
For C OWLEY , with his fancies queer,
His learning ripe, his taste severe,
His spirit reverent, and his mind
To rural solitude inclin'd, —
To ancient lore, to sacred themes,
To knightly deeds and mystic dreams, —
Has shone upon me, like a star,
And sweetly lur'd and led me far; —
So that, forgetting now and here,
And troubles rife and feelings sere,
I've heard the songs of angels, blent
With echoes from his fields of Kent. —
Things own'd are mere Oblivion's dues:
Things lov'd the soul can never lose!