Classic Poem

Pray for me at the morning and at eve,
When downward, lingering, goes the mellowéd sun,
Utter thy prayer that he may always leave
A smile, a promise, for the wandering one.

Pray for me, though perchance, with mood like mine,
Forever wayward, wild and obstinate,
All prayer be unavailing—ay, even thine—
Pray still, and I shall not be desolate.

My heart shall fancy in the pleasant breeze,
That gathers in the tree-tops, there's a tone
Sweet, sad, like that which comes o'er moaning seas,
Which thou dost send to cheer the wandering one.

And when I lay me on my noonday bed,
'Neath the broad foliage of the summer vine,
I'll deem the spirit watching at my head,
The spirit that has waited long on thine.

Sweet heart! oh, never yet bloom'd sweeter heart—
Pray for me, and the desert world and wild,
Shall offer tendance, and with gentlest art,
Hallowing thy prayer, shall bless their erring child.

Sweet airs shall be around me, and though men,
Not knowing well have wrong'd me—blest by thee,
The elements shall all look kindlier then,
And doubly grant the boon thou begg'st for me.