Classic Poem

This wondrous valley! hath it spells
And golden alchemies,
That so its chaliced splendor dwells
In these imperial eyes?

This man hath breathed all balms of light,
And quaffed all founts of grace,
Till Glory, on the mountain height,
Has met him face to face.

Ye kingly hills! ye dimpled dells!
Haunt of the eagle—dove,
Grant us your wine of woven spells
To grow like him we love.