Classic Poem

A little valley round me lies
Circled about by silent hills;
Above it sweep the endless skies—
In Spring, it is all daffodils;
In Summer, the sweetbrier grows
For those who seek; then, wistful days
Soften through Autumn, till the snows
Lie white on all the quiet ways.

The many, many ways that wend
Their many paths the valley through!
I cannot trace them to the end—
They stretch a little space in view
And then (ah, some are rough to tread!
But some all gently travel on
With sunlight shining overhead)
They climb the hill-crest, and are gone.

And by these roads, day after day,
My friends and fellows, one by one
With eyes far-searching, fare away.
So shall I do as they have done—
Some day, with swift or faltering pace
And one look backward, long and fond,
Shall climb the encircling hills, and face
The great beyond—the great beyond!