Classic Poem

The Year, now eight moons old, leans o'er the flood
In a grave quiet. He has laid to heart
The winds—at evening hushed, that vexed the morn—
As he had heard December's shout from far.
Yet is his mood resigned, for he has blessed
The earth with beauty.—Thus we moralized.
Feeling bred fancy; filial fancy brought
New stores to feeling, till the scene around
Grew human like ourselves. The current sighed
To think it might not tarry; laden boughs—
Like triumph smitten with the thought of death—
Drooped over the green walls; and sat sedate
The hills, like elders that recall their youth.
—Oh, change! oh, time! oh, mystery beyond!
In silence passed we onward to the shore,
And crossed the Nahe. Then, many a twinkling gleam
Peered through quaint windows on the narrow street.
The cheerful housewife plied her needle here;
There at their evening meal, through open doors,
We looked on happy groups; and from the road
Burst forth a manly song, in which were blent
A hundred voices. We were one in heart
With all we saw, and echoed all we heard.
Blest mystery that but subdues the soul
To soften it to concord, and with dews
Of sadness cherishes the growth of love!