Classic Poem

With the sun glowing warm at its height,
And the people at work in white sleeves,
And the gold-banded bee in its flight,
With the quick-flitting birds among leaves:
There my two little children would run,
And would reach and would roll in their fun,
And would clasp in their hands,
Stick or stone for their play,—
In their hands, that but little had grown;
For their play, with a stick or a stone.

As the sun from his high summer bow
Had begun o'er the orchard to fall,
There he left the brown beehives, in row,
In the shade of the houses grey wall;
And the flowers, outshining in bloom,
Some in light, and some others in gloom,
To the cool of the air,
And the damp of the dew,—
The air, from the apple-tree shades,
And the dew, on the grasses' green blades.

And there was my orchard well-tined
With a hedge and a steep-sided bank,
Where ivy had twin'd on the rind
Of the wood-stems, and trees in high rank,
To keep out the wide lipped cow,
And the stiff-snouted swine, that would plough
Up the soft-bladed grass,
By the young apple-trees,—
The grass, that had grown a good height,
And the trees, that in blossom were white.

O when is a father's good time,
That will yield to his toil the best joy?
Is it when he is spending his prime
For his children, the girl and the boy?
Or when they have grown to their height,
And are gone from his hearing and sight,
And their mother's one voice
Is left home at the door,—
A voice, that no longer may sing,
At the door, that more seldom may swing?