Classic Poem

I heard in the glen, when the snowdrifts were heaping,
The wailing of women, lamenting of men;
They kept the graves green with the warmth of their weeping,
For lads who would love, laugh, nor battle again.

I stood in the glen, when the woodlands were pealing
With airs of the Spring, and the old life went on;
There was dance on the meadow, and song in the shealing,
The graves were still there, but the mourners were gone!

Man that is born of woman finds a charm
In that which he is born of. She it is
Who moulds him with a frown or with a kiss
To good or ill, to welfare or to harm:
But, when he has attain'd her soft round arm
And drawn it through his own, and made her his,
He through her eyes beholds a wider bliss,
As sweet as that she gives him, and as warm.

What bliss? We dare not name it: her fond looks
Are jealous too; she hardly understands,
Girt by her children's laughter or their cries,
The stately smooth companionship of books:
And yet to her we owe it, to her hands
And to her heart, that books can make us wise.