Classic Poem

I.

W E came to bid farewell: it was the day
Whereon the white earth-fretted Cross was found;
And we, strange chance! did meet it on our way,
As we were in an ancient pleasure-ground.
Close by a languid river, where the spring
'Mid bursting buds and flowers was rioting.

II.

It was a garden wild, a mystic scene,
Which an old poet in times past had planned,
And May was coloring with lines of green
The goodly work of his religious hand.
For he had thought a broad Church-cross to make,
And bade the elms the hallowed form to take.

III.

Transept and nave each summer roofs with care;
And here perchance in life's less happy hours
The dwellers in that studious House repair
To learn deep Christian things from homely flowers,
When evening comes with many winds to chime
Up in the trees her own cathedral time.

IV.

Outside the Cross a wilderness was laid,
Apt likeness of the world — had it not been
That moss and colonies of primrose made
Too sweet a desert, far too fair a scene!
There many a proud young fritillary weaves
With hyacinths his panther-spotted leaves:

V.

And lily-plants in scattered pairs, like gems,
Shine in the tall dark grass between the trees,
Stooping to empty on their own green stems
The morning dew from their red chalices;
For at high noon the drops lay sparkling still
On king-cup pale and jealous daffodil.

VI.

We came to bid farewell: beneath the shade
Old times, old dreams were sweetly pondered o'er,
And sweeter was the welcome that we made
To wiser hopes, — and I did love thee more
For all the signs thou wert so meekly giving
Of the grave inward life which thou art living!

VII.

We came and bade farewell; and thou didst go
To lands where trees have larger leaves than ours;
But the fair fields where foreign rivers flow,
Their piny hills, will give thee no such powers,
As the low hazel-woods and forest brakes
That open to our own unworldly lakes.

VIII.

Unworldly lakes! — Did we not dream away
Part of our manhood by their inland coves,
Living, like summer insects, all the day
In summer winds or shade of drowsy groves?
And with our endless songs and joyous airs
Made wings unto ourselves as bright as theirs!

IX.

Farewell! — These lines may go where thou hast gone,
Home's echo to thee in transalpine bowers;
Our past leave-takings are the food, whereon
All friendship lives; and in her barren hours
Shall memory poetic impulse borrow
From the green place and hour of that sweet sorrow.