Classic Poem

Clouds are mingled in changing grey:
A rainy morning in spring—so be it.
There'll be no revel of roses and may;
Go back—children who came to see it.
There'll be no noon on the hills to-day;

No deep sky lost in the sun, but rain;
No clouds like light in a light that is greater.
The young sky weeps in a youth of pain,
And though the sweet sun may send us later
Long glories over the level plain,

Yet there are slopes of the Eastern lawn
Among the hills—those morning places,
With souls to the early time up-drawn;
With tremulous dews and dreamy faces
Set to the fresh thoughts of the dawn—

Set to the innocent airs, and sweet
Long sunshine of the morning only.
Though the far plain of wood and wheat
Shine rainbow-robed, their shadows, lonely,
Will darken the country about their feet.

The sun may break: we will thank God for it,
In a long bright evening—who shall say?
The dark veil fall; but the morning wore it.
And many flowers will have done their day,
And many birds will have died before it.