Classic Poem

The sun dips o'er thy meadows,
And paler grow the shadows,
Where the willows love the stream,
While in the sultry street
I turn again, and dream
Of thy thyme and meadow-sweet,
Winding Towy.

Ah, where is he, that knew thee
When a boy; and late turned to thee
When a dying man; to dream
In another northern street
By the Tyne, of Towy stream,
And thy thyme and meadow-sweet,
Pleasant Towy?

He longed for thy still waters,
Like all thy sons and daughters.
They roam the earth, but dream
Where the Afrid death-drums beat,
Or Sahara's sand-fires gleam,
Of thy thyme and meadow-sweet,
Quiet Towy.

They hear the kine go lowing,
At evening homeward going
Below Carmarthen town,
Where thro' each western street
The fragrances are blown
Of thy thyme and meadow-sweet,
Winding Towy.

They hear thy soft Welsh voices,
And the hushed and homely noises
When at nightfall, by the door
One sings, and passing feet
Are stayed to hear once more
Of thy thyme and meadow-sweet,
Pleasant Towy.

Ah, at last, to thy green quiet
Let me turn, too, from the riot
Of the crowd, — and find thy peace
And forget my tired feet,
In those pastoral cadences
Of thy thyme and meadow-sweet,