Classic Poem

The Berecynthian flute,
The lovely Lydian lute,
The clear Arcadian pipe
That, when the vernal noons were lush and ripe,
Bore melody's golden fruit,
Lo, these are mute!
But still the nightingale
Lifts its enamored voice in Tempe's vale,
And still in ilex boughs the south wind sigheth
Along those storied shores
Where swart Ionian boatmen ply the oars,
For music never dieth!
And in our new Atlantis of the West,
Anigh its hidden nest,
The furtive forest thrush
Pierces the twilight hush
With haunting gush,
To which, from out its overburdened breast,
Some eremite in ecstasy replyeth.

From eve to eve, from dawn to vermeil dawn,
The harmonies of earth roll ever on and on!