Classic Poem

That thou shouldst be my mother hour by hour,
 Changeless, of sovereign power,
 That all of thine should last
Though aging worlds drew deathward, darkening fast,

This seemed past question: yea, that when the morn
 O'er golden hills was borne,—
 That when at drowsy noon
The glad earth slept, with eyelids touched by June,—

That when from budding copse or white-flowered tree
 Rang forth the throstle's glee,—
 That when the blue waves bore
Tribute of rainbow shells to rock or shore,—

That when the boats black-hulled and russet-sailed
 Gleamed, till the light wind failed,—
That when the bright star-rebels, one by one
 Glittering, deposed the sun,—

That then thou shouldst be with me seemed so right
 That never, save at night
Sometimes, when flashes of the future came
 Across me like a flame,

Could I conceive that one day all these things
 Would go on as before,
But thou wouldst never mark the throstle's wings
 Nor watch the white-edged shore.