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.