Classic Poem

At such a time, of year and day,
In ages gone, that steep hill-brow
Cast down an evening shade, that lay
In shape the same as lies there now;
Though then no shadows wheel'd around
The things that now are on the ground.

The hill's high shape may long outstand
The house, of slowly-wasting stone;
The house may longer shade the land
Than man's on-gliding shade is shown;
The man himself may longer stay
Than stands the summer's rick of hay.

The trees that rise, with boughs o'er boughs,
To me for trees long-fall'n may pass;
And I could take those red-hair'd cows
For those that pull'd my first-known grass;
Our flow'rs seem yet on ground and spray,
But oh, our people; where are they?