Classic Poem

Old things are best. We wander
So strangely and so lonely
From here to that world yonder.
Why not grow fond and fonder
In tried affections only?

Old friends are best. Their faces
Each year seem dearer, dearer,
And glow with new-found graces;
Then, ah! These vacant places
But bring the living nearer.

Old homes are best. The laughter
That tells of childhood's pleasures
Beneath the ancient rafter,
Surpasses all that's after,
And all of manhood's treasures.

Old love is best. Its sweetness
Makes pleasant Sorrow's chalice;
And, spite of Time's dread fleetness,
It gains in calm completeness
And laughs at Age's malice.

Old faith is best: the teaching
Of heart-enshrined mothers.
What profits subtle preaching,
Or blind and eager reaching
For doubt that mocks and smothers?

Old ways are best: the gladness
Of simpler lives and fitter,
Ere wealth had come with madness,
Or folly left its sadness,
And sin its lessons bitter.

Old things are best. The glimmer
Of age forbids new choices.
Oh, as mine eyes grow dimmer,
Faintly across the shimmer
Waft me the old, sweet voices!