Classic Poem

Come pleasant thoughts; sweet thoughts, at will
Of hope and love, recurring still;
And while the preacher, much perplext,
To pieces pulls the weary text,—

O pleasant thoughts—around the home
Of happy memories free to roam
Let me, there, underneath the trees
That grow for me beyond the seas,

Among far-distant English flowers
Compose the blessed Sunday hours;
And see before and by me move
The darling figure of my love.

The purple silk I see,—I hear
Its rustle as she passes near,—
As 'twere the shadow of sweet sound
Her voice upon my heart is found.

An halo of a loving grace
Hangs interposed before her face;
My eyes are dim, and do not see,
I only feel that it is she.

Come, happy fancies, come, and go,
And come again, forever so;
I shall be blest, whate'er my lot
So you,—and she,—forsake me not.