Classic Poem

We met on the hillside—we both were young—
Where countless thousands have met before:
And read together the tender book
That youth in all time cons o'er and o'er.

How sweet the rhymes! How brightly down
Shone on our faces the golden morn!
Far up the path sweet roses clung,
Soft blew the wind of the Summer's born.

“Our path shall be one,” he tenderly said,
“Up the hill, down the other side:
Whether heavy or light the burden be,
Only as one shall our strength be tried.”

So we climbed together, young and strong—
For no toil is heavy to Love and Youth—
And plucked the flowers that fringed the way—
Flowers that blossom for Trust and Truth.

How sweet the morn! How the hours sped!
And dancing beside us came little feet,
Sweet, tiny voices and little hands,
Clinging softly, with clasping sweet.

Ah, the tender sadness with which one tells
Of joys that are dead! The morning gone,
Rough grew the way and hard the toil,
As the weary heat of the noon came on.

And then he was stricken! falling down
In the rugged way at the hot noontide;
And cold hands bore him away from me,
Over the stream to the other side.

O! weary, weary, the way I have trod!
The pattering feet beside my own
No more keep time, and the little hands
Clasp mine no more. Old, and alone!

I have passed the summit long ago—
Slowly, painfully, creeping down!
Gray locks are straying my temples o'er,
Where clustered brightly the curls of brown.

At the foot of the hill rolls the sullen stream;
I am nearing it now, at the eventide;
I shall enter it when the sun goes down,
And meet my love on the other side!