Classic Poem

Like wandering Dove, whose restless feet
Could find no solid landing place,
I pluck this Olive leaf, to grace
A memory ever pure and sweet.

This was the ancient type of peace;
The wrathful flood was overpast, —
The gladsome sun beamed forth at last, —
The ark on storm-tossed waves did cease.

Then from the Olive bough the bird
Cropt this green leaf with mystic care;
And to the patriarch's hand she bare
The missive with its high accord.

Dear Friend, to you this Olive spray
I send, the messenger of love;
It speaks a sentiment above
All other language to convey.

The Olive, — glory of this land, —
Our ancient Craft from this expressed
The Oil of joy that shone and blessed,
In hours of rest, the laboring band.

The deadliest hands, upraised in hate,
Before this gentle missive drop;
The direst discords quickly stop;
The Olive speaks, — the floods abate.

All this and more I fain would teach,
From this bright, ancient, verdant text;
Take it with all the words annexed, —
Be yours the sermon that they teach!