Classic Poem

Beneath the trees the old swing's ample seat,
Freighted with maids demure, sways to and fro;
One maiden to herself sings soft and low,
And in the shadows here the stifling heat
Lessens, while by the public fountain, meet
Worn men, and tired horses, moving slow,
Yet eager for the cooling streams which flow
From yon blue hills beyond the fields of wheat.

While sinks the sun, the bending toilers move
Homeward along the quiet, leafy way;
And now the moon amid the boughs is hung:
It is the evening of the Sacred Play,
And the grave people gather in the grove,
Where the old Bible Story will be sung.