Classic Poem

The wanderer reaches home with joy
From absence of a year and more;
His eye seeks a beloved boy —
His wife lies weeping on the floor.

They whisper he is gone. The glooms
Of evening fall; beyond the gate
A lonely grave in outline looms
To greet the sire who came too late.

Forth to the little mound he flings,
Where wild-flowers bloom on every side
His bones are in the Yellow Springs,
His flesh like dust is scattered wide.

" O child who never knew thy sire,
For ever now to be unknown,
Ere long thy wandering ghost shall tire
Of flitting friendless and alone.

" O son, man's greatest earthly boon,
With thee I bury hopes and fears. "
He bowed his head in grief and soon
His breast was wet with rolling tears.

Life's dread uncertainty he knows,
But oh for this untimely close!