Classic Poem

I, from the meadows of Song,
Fresh from the clover dales,
Am here 'mid the rushing throng,
Regretting the fragrant vales.

For there the spirit, Repose,
Dwells in the shadowy pass;
Beauty is there with her rose, —
Leisure, a-dream in the grass.

But yet, 'tis a heartening sight,
It was wrong to repine,
The rush has a touch of delight,
And the fervor is fine!

Oh, the Doers of Things are they, —
No shirkers among them all,
For Duty is calling to-day,
And they surge to the call!