Classic Poem

The beautiful home he made is there,
Begirt by a stately lawn,
But over its beeches bleak and bare,
Winter is trailing his hoary hair,
And brown leaves thrill to the icy air,
A plaint for the summer gone.

And all night long the wild winds go
Sobbing around the eaves,
The waves of the streamlet murmur low
A sadder song than they used to know,
Like the voice of one that grieves.

The birds that sang in the forest bowers
To brighter skies have fled,
And the golden-hearted lily flowers,
That held their cups to the summer showers,
And dreamed of the stars in stilly hours
Of the purple night, are dead.

But spring will come as the world goes round,
With silver-sandaled feet;
Her buried treasures will all be found,
The flowers and forests robed and crowned
With beauty and odors sweet.

The winds on a thousand harps will play
Their sweet old melody,
And the waves will chant a roundelay,
As they weave their crowns of pearly spray,
And link their hands to dance away
To their bridal with the sea.

But he who cherished each shrub and tree,
Who loved each nook and turn
Of shadowy valley, sunny lea
And babbling brooklet — will he see
The riant spring return?

Nay! flowers may bloom in the fair home-place,
And tuneful wild birds sing;
But the light of his beloved face,
His gentle voice, and the tender grace
Of his clasping hand, his fond embrace,
No change, no charm can bring.

When the days of his years were bright,
His dream of the future grand:
In voiceless hours of a summer night
He calmly passed from our human sight,
Away to the unknown land.

Alas, for the loss, the grief, the tears,
Of fond hearts stricken sore,
Whose love will listen adown the years,
For the one dear voice it never hears,
For the step that comes no more.

From the ruthless wreck of bright days flown,
Their memory will recall
A glance, a smile, a tender tone,
Or a loving word of the darling gone:
These priceless treasures are still their own —
Alas, that these are all.

His life, in its every act and aim,
Was lovely to its close,
No taint of wrong, no breath of blame
Sullied the whiteness of his fame.
Leaving the light of a spotless name,
He went to his repose.

Farewell, O noble, genial heart!
For thee there is no more pain.
Death gave thee life's immortal part,
And love shall find thee where'er thou art,
God rest thee — wiedersehen.