Classic Poem

In this white-lighted day of the Spring,
When the high-singing larks are on wing,
O Brynton, how bright and how clear
Thou art shown from afar as if near,
As I, back-sunn'd, behold thee to-day
On thy height, clear to sight, in the light.

Oh! It is not a Sunday, the time
When thy bells ever tunefully chime;
And it is not the day of thy fair,
With the hum of quick tongues in the air,
And with clusters of folk on the road
To thy height, clear to sight, in the light.

Nay, nor is it the day of thy feast
When, of friends, both the greatest and least,
In their looks and their clothing all gay,
May have met for a free holiday,
To be merry with kith and with kin
On thy height, clear to sight, in the light.

And it is not the cold Christmastide,
With the ice for the children's long slide;
And the brisk-winded night, with the leaves
Of thy trees rustling over house eaves,
While the moonshine may show thy pale walls
On thy height, clear to sight, in the light.

But to me 'tis, by yeartide, the day
When I took thy good daughter away—
Aye, away down that long sunny road,
The long road to my lowland abode,
And no better a one canst thou show
On thy height, clear to sight, in the light.