Classic Poem

It comes into my mind, in a genial mood,
When the worlds of my being, without and within,
Are pensively happy, in all that is good, —
Unclouded by care and untempted by sin, —
If the gods would but grant me my dearest desire,
As sometimes I think they are willing to do,
That I shouldn't sit here, looking into the fire,
And dreaming, my love, as I'm dreaming of you.

Nor should I be thinking, as sometimes I am, —
If the gods had but made me the thing I would be, —
That a station of rank, in a world full of sham,
Were a pleasant and suitable station for me.
Nor would ever a fancy drift into my brain
For the laurel that bards are so wishful to wear, —
That dubious guerdon for labor and pain,
That sorry exchange for the natural hair.

No! I never should care, if I had my own way,
For the storm or the sunshine, the yes or the no;
But, merrily careless and perfectly gay,
I could let the world go as it wanted to go:
I should ask neither riches, nor station, nor power;
They are chances, they happen, and there is an end;
But a heart that beats happily every hour
Is a god's richest gift, is a man's truest friend.

And that's what I'd have! For that blessing I pray!
A spirit so gentle and cheery and bright,
It would gladden with sunshine the sunniest day,
And with magical splendor illumine the night.
I could envy no potentate under the sun,
However sublime might that potentate be!
For I'd live, the illustrious monarch of fun,
And the rest of the world should be happy with me.

I'd be gold in the sunshine and silver in showers;
I'd be rainbows, and clouds all of purple and pearl;
And the fairies of fun should laugh out of the flowers,
And the jolly old earth should be all in a whirl!
The brooks should trill music, the leaves dance in glee,
And old ocean should bellow with surly delight:
O, but wouldn't it be a rare pageant to see,
If the gods did but grant me my kingdom to-night!

And I think it will come, — that enthronement of mine,
That crown with the opals of jollity set;
And the joy in my soul will be almost divine
When I finally teach myself how to forget;
Forget every trouble in which I've a part,
All the dreams that allure and the hopes that betray;
Contented to wait with a right merry heart
For silence and night and the end of the play.