Classic Poem

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
— And all the world's a song;
" She's far," it sings me, " but fair," it rings me,
— " Quiet," it laughs, " and strong!"

Oh! spite of the miles and years between us,
— Spite of your chosen part,
I do remember; and I go
— With laughter in my heart.

So above the little folk that know not,
— Out of the white hill-town,
High up I clamber; and I remember;
— And watch the day go down.

Gold is my heart, and the world's golden,
— And one peak tipped with light;
And the air lies still about the hill
— With the first fear of night;

Till mystery down the soundless valley
— Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
— And the night is full of fear.

And I know, one night, on some far height,
— In the tongue I never knew,
I yet shall hear the tidings clear
— From them that were friends of you.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,
— Dark and uncomforted,
Earth and sky and the winds; and I
— Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread;
For the kin of you will surely do
— Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy eyes will water;
— They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.
They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep
— Like flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,
— Bind up your fallen chin,
And lay you straight, the fools that loved you
— Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
— And hush the good away,
And wonder how they'll do without you,
— And then they'll go away.

But quieter than one sleeping,
— And stranger than of old,
You will not stir for weeping,
— You will not mind the cold;

But through the night the lips will laugh not,
— The hands will be in place,
And at length the hair be lying still
— About the quiet face.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— And dim and decorous mirth,
With ham and sherry, they'll meet to bury
— The lordliest lass of earth.

The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
— Behind lone-riding you,
The heart so high, the heart so living,
— Heart that they never knew.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread,
Nor with smug breath tell lies of death
— To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— The folk who loved you not
Will bury you, and go wondering
— Back home. And you will rot.

But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
— With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
— Your Ambarvalia.

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
— And all the world's a song;
" She's far," it sings me, " but fair," it rings me,
— " Quiet," it laughs, " and strong!"

Oh! spite of the miles and years between us,
— Spite of your chosen part,
I do remember; and I go
— With laughter in my heart.

So above the little folk that know not,
— Out of the white hill-town,
High up I clamber; and I remember;
— And watch the day go down.

Gold is my heart, and the world's golden,
— And one peak tipped with light;
And the air lies still about the hill
— With the first fear of night;

Till mystery down the soundless valley
— Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
— And the night is full of fear.

And I know, one night, on some far height,
— In the tongue I never knew,
I yet shall hear the tidings clear
— From them that were friends of you.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,
— Dark and uncomforted,
Earth and sky and the winds; and I
— Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread;
For the kin of you will surely do
— Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy eyes will water;
— They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.
They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep
— Like flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,
— Bind up your fallen chin,
And lay you straight, the fools that loved you
— Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
— And hush the good away,
And wonder how they'll do without you,
— And then they'll go away.

But quieter than one sleeping,
— And stranger than of old,
You will not stir for weeping,
— You will not mind the cold;

But through the night the lips will laugh not,
— The hands will be in place,
And at length the hair be lying still
— About the quiet face.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— And dim and decorous mirth,
With ham and sherry, they'll meet to bury
— The lordliest lass of earth.

The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
— Behind lone-riding you,
The heart so high, the heart so living,
— Heart that they never knew.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread,
Nor with smug breath tell lies of death
— To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— The folk who loved you not
Will bury you, and go wondering
— Back home. And you will rot.

But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
— With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
— Your Ambarvalia.

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
— And all the world's a song;
" She's far," it sings me, " but fair," it rings me,
— " Quiet," it laughs, " and strong!"

Oh! spite of the miles and years between us,
— Spite of your chosen part,
I do remember; and I go
— With laughter in my heart.

So above the little folk that know not,
— Out of the white hill-town,
High up I clamber; and I remember;
— And watch the day go down.

Gold is my heart, and the world's golden,
— And one peak tipped with light;
And the air lies still about the hill
— With the first fear of night;

Till mystery down the soundless valley
— Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
— And the night is full of fear.

And I know, one night, on some far height,
— In the tongue I never knew,
I yet shall hear the tidings clear
— From them that were friends of you.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,
— Dark and uncomforted,
Earth and sky and the winds; and I
— Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread;
For the kin of you will surely do
— Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy eyes will water;
— They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.
They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep
— Like flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,
— Bind up your fallen chin,
And lay you straight, the fools that loved you
— Because they were your kin.

They will praise all the bad about you,
— And hush the good away,
And wonder how they'll do without you,
— And then they'll go away.

But quieter than one sleeping,
— And stranger than of old,
You will not stir for weeping,
— You will not mind the cold;

But through the night the lips will laugh not,
— The hands will be in place,
And at length the hair be lying still
— About the quiet face.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— And dim and decorous mirth,
With ham and sherry, they'll meet to bury
— The lordliest lass of earth.

The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving
— Behind lone-riding you,
The heart so high, the heart so living,
— Heart that they never knew.

I shall not hear your trentals,
— Nor eat your arval bread,
Nor with smug breath tell lies of death
— To the unanswering dead.

With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,
— The folk who loved you not
Will bury you, and go wondering
— Back home. And you will rot.

But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
— With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
— Your Ambarvalia.