Classic Poem

If yonder lie another, better land,
A fairer than this humble mother-shore,
Hoping to meet the dear ones gone before,
I fain would go. But may no angel hand
Lead on so far along the shining sand,
So wide within the everlasting door,
All lost will be this good green world. No more
Of Earth! Let me not hear that dread command.
Then must I mourn, unsoothed by harps of gold,
Mourn for the boughs, the birds, which taught me song,
Mourn for the nightfall on the forest fold;
Yea, must bemoan, amid the joyous throng,
The early loves. The heart that has grown old
With Nature cannot, happy, leave her long.