Classic Poem

Now earth and sky are at their loveliest,
Nor toil, nor ghost of it, can haunt my rest,
This is the time for Thought.
If she but come and through my leisure bide,
Alone with her I shall be satisfied,
Nor shall I live for naught.

She comes as bidden, but with languid pace,
And after gazing vaguely in my face,
Without a word she turns.
What ails my Thought? What means this mockery?
Where has she gone? What would she have of me?
My soul with anger burns.

This waiting tablet let me thrust away,
It must be bare of all I wish to-day;—
Of what avail is it
To drink this glory round and overhead,
Since Thought has turned her back on me and fled,
And I alone must sit?

There may not come another day like this;
Yet all its possibilities I miss,
Since Thought has left me so.
Now will I yield myself to utter rest,
Nor give a thought to Thought, my fickle guest,
But, like a child, will go

And lie all listless on the shady height,
With brook and birds and flowers in my sight:—
But—some one else is here!
Who but my Thought? Shut are her large, deep eyes,
On Beauty's bosom fast asleep she lies,
Content I linger near.

Now for to-day I have no further care,
Willing am I to have my tablet bare,
My sleeping Thought to see;—
With every long, still breath she draws in strength,
I feel her presence; she will wake at length
And give herself to me.