Classic Poem

Fair sinks the summer evening now
In softened glory round my home;
The sky upon its holy brow
Wears not a cloud that speaks of gloom.

The old tower, shrined in golden light,
Looks down on the descending sun—
So gently evening blends with night,
You scarce can say that day is done.

And this is just the joyous hour
When we were wont to burst away,
To 'scape from labour's tyrant power
And cheerfully go out to play.

Then why is all so sad and lone?
No merry foot-step on the stair—
No laugh—no heart-awaking tone,
But voiceless silence everywhere.

I've wandered round our garden-ground,
And still it seemed, at every turn,
That I should greet approaching feet,
And words upon the breezes borne.

In vain—they will not come to-day,
And morning's beam will rise as drear;
Then tell me—are they gone for aye
Our sun blinks through the mists of care?

Ah no; reproving Hope doth say,
Departed joys 'tis fond to mourn,
When every storm that hides their ray
Prepares a more divine return.