Classic Poem

'Tis not the redd'ning sun goes down,
And slants his beams across,
Through autumn woods, past shadows brown,
O'er many a mound of moss.

And settles down a brooding still
Upon the evening gray;
While east, the moon, above the hill,
Climbs up her starry way.

Between its banks, in shadowy sheen,
My river runneth by;
Broad sweeps it past the meadows green,
Itself blue, like the sky.

Now on its bosom all at rest
I push my boat from shore.
This night, I'll float upon thy breast
Or plash the dripping oar.

The wavelets dance around my prow,
And laugh in moonshine bright:
List to their tiny music now
Rise on the glimmering night!

See where the shadows, falling down
This side the rising moon,
Outline the ragged bluff so brown:
They'll all flee shoreward soon.

Meanwhile, here in the shadow dim,
Where looms the hill-top high,
I watch the branch-torn, ragged rim
Cut sharp against the sky.

There, just below, a shadowy band,
The bridge hangs o'er the flood,
By which two villages clasp hand
In loving brotherhood.

Beyond the bridge, — I know it well, —
The church which elms embower;
And now rings out the evening bell
Upon this perfect hour.

Sweet village! Thou to me dost seem
A picture free from care:
Thou art a lovely country dream,
And, like a dream, most fair.

Sweet river! While the city's din
Goes up with ceaseless roar,
I wander back to what has been,
And sit upon thy shore.

Again, my boat's side leaning o'er,
I muse and dream, and see,
Through childhood's wondering eyes once more,
The things that were to be.