Classic Poem

As here I linger, sunder'd wide
From home and friends, through longsome days,
My roving thought, at evening-tide,
Flies back to trace our dear old ways.
O'er down and mead, for miles on miles,
I keep no path, I climb no stiles;
At flowing rills no bridge I need
To speed in thought o'er many hills.

The hill-brow winds may sigh, and sweep
Some softer sighs of grief away;
On village greens young joy may leap,
And children end their day in play.
Of all the day could show, between
My friends and me, I little ween;
As on by mills and towers high
I fly, in thought, o'er many hills.

When time shall bring the summer day,
With blooming land and lofty sun,
I then may take that happy way
By slopes and homesteads one by one;
And though at none of them I call,
May peace betide them, one and all,
As evening stills their day for rest,
All blest among their many hills.

At home our friends are flitting fast
To live where'er their lot may fall;
But why should Mary's lot be cast
To linger there the last of all,
And not come here with me and bless
My days of toil with happiness,
Or soothe my ills, when all beside
Are wide away, o'er many hills?