Classic Poem

O THAT the pines which crown yon steep
— Their fires might ne'er surrender!
O that yon fervid knoll might keep,
— While lasts the world, its splendor!

Pale poplars on the breeze that lean,
— And in the sunset shiver,
O that your golden stems might screen
— For aye yon glassy river!

That yon white bird on homeward wing
— Soft-sliding without motion,
And now in blue air vanishing
— Like snow-flake lost in ocean,

Beyond our sight might never flee,
— Yet forward still be flying;
And all the dying day might be
— Immortal in its dying!

Pellucid thus in saintly trance,
— Thus mute in expectation,
What waits the earth? Deliverance?
— Ah no! Transfiguration!

She dreams of that " New Earth " divine,
— Conceived of seed immortal;
She sings " Not mine the holier shrine,
— Yet mine the steps and portal! "