Classic Poem

Behind the old house beds of lettuce grow;
The winds across the dancing red-top blow;
The brook is bright with blue forget-me-nots
As when we gathered long, long years ago.

Behind the old house on a trellis nod
The sweetpease (purple o'er the goldenrod),
Whose incense, like an unseen beauty, fills
The upland morning and the fields of God.

Behind the old house, down the narrow lane,
After long years the mountain sun again!
After long years the wide primeval dawn,
Gold o'er the white mists of the midland plain!

And how those years of sorrow glorify
The fresh, free, olden things of earth and sky!