Classic Poem

Bright things, blest things, to look on you,
Eyes that are in their wane
Grow bright, and hearts at ebb of age
Fill with life's tide again.

And you, not age nor death should touch,
If human love might save;
But stronger is the love that blights,
And gathers to the grave.

We know that you the angels love,—
They love all gentle things—
And often o'er you fondly stoop,
And spread their viewless wings.

And tenderly their starry eyes
Watch you by night and day,
And sweetly as they smile on you,
So you on us alway.

And O, should he who smiles on all,
And loves both young and old,
Should the dear Shepherd take his lambs,
And bear them to his fold,—

Should he who gave these buds of love,
Who gives, and maketh lorn,
Leave us like withered stems till eve,
And take them in the morn;

We still, O God, would trust his love
Who once in form like them,
Slept on a woman's yearning breast,
A babe in Bethlehem.

Who hope hath given to death, as dawn
To thickest dark he gave,
And caused that still the new year's flowers
Grow on the old year's grave.