Classic Poem

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,
— By furrowed glade and dell,
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,
— Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression,
— For ruder speech too fair,
That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,
— And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,
— And, leaning on his spade,
Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor
— To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,
— And for a moment clear
Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises
— And passes in a tear, —

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village,
— Of uneventful toil,
Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage
— Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting,
— Through root and fibre cleaves,
And on the muddy current slowly drifting
— Are swept thy bruised leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion,
— Thy work thou dost fulfil,
For on the turbid current of his passion
— Thy face is shining still!