Classic Poem

Thy springlike spirit has stolen from very Spring the power
Whereby he clothes in robes of leaf and bud and flower
Each new year without fail.
Not even Death, I think, could meet thee and not tremble,
Yea, surely he would turn, and sorrow and dissemble:
At sight of thy flushed cheek his hand would quail.

It seems to me that thou hast endless life within thee;
That never heart of man, nor poet's heart, must win thee,
But souls of flowers and seas:
The living voice of Spring within the woods and mountains;
The laughter of the morn in rivers and in fountains:
The deathless love-song of the thornless breeze:

These are thine own.—But I,—what can I bring but sadness?
Thou gazest at the plain with young heart full of gladness,
The plain so bright with flowers:
I see beyond the plain the solemn hills ascending
Height beyond awful height, with black crags never ending
And snow-capped vast indomitable towers.

Life's joys are all thine own, its every sunniest pleasure:
While I with only love for sunshine and for treasure
Gaze at thee, rapt and fond.
Yet ever is it true that thou art gazing only
At the broad flowerful plain,—while I with vision lonely
(So lonely!) mark the unscaled rocks beyond.