Classic Poem

Who hurts his heel upon a stone;
Knows that some trick of life is done;
No longer his the rage to do,
The rush across the hurrying sun.

Such thrift he shows with his new hours
That he spares one, to stoop his head
To some grey book he read with her
Who loved him long since. She is dead.

Lovely, secure, unhastening things
Fast-kept for this, grip as of yore;—
The drowsy traffic of the bees;
The scarlet haws beyond a door.