Classic Poem

Wind in the south-west: weather fit to stay;
A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—
When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together,
It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!

We went to church and heard a sermon preached,
Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,
And lifted us up towards the town divine,
Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled
Along the massive turnpikes made of gold.
We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true
It made me think of every flower I knew;
And when, with benediction, the old pastor
Said “Good-bye” for himself, but not his Master,
It put my resolution to the rack,
To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!
We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,
And bring away all of it that we could;
But there were certain persons there to-day,
Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
And, standing round, with worldly nods and smiles,
Held a week-day reception in the aisies.

Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,
He wants to get home safely with the same:
And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,
And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,
Intended, by some power, his mind to bring
Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing—
From office, and good methods to insure it,
To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.