Classic Poem

Upon this road,
That we once trode,
When erst our limbs were young and spry,
The warmer gust
Upwafts the dust,
Against the trees, smokelight and dry;
While shine the stream, and tree, and tun,
Below the now all-showing sun.

Around this ledge,
With sloping edge,
The road still winds with sides of white,
And down beneath,
The winds yet breathe,
Through rustling pines of lofty height,
And up above, within the copse,
Yet coos the dove o'er hazel tops.

What we might call
Our little all
Was here, at homes no more our own,
And where our kin
Then hail'd us in,
We pass the door no longer known;
And, oh! that tow'r, and stream, and hill,
Could say, " All hail, we know you still."