Classic Poem

These hills that lift their verdant heads so high,
These towering palms that form a cooling shade,
These moss-grown banks for peaceful numbers made,
This lingering stream that flows in silence by,
The distant-murmuring main, the Zephyr's sigh,
The Sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,
The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade,
Those glittering clouds that fringe the western sky;
Each various beauty, which the vernal year
Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain,
Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near,
Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain;
Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear,
And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.