Classic Poem

The cool arms of the hemlocks sway along
The way that winds into the Vale of Peace,
Where piny odors, and the wood-bird's song,
And low tree-murmurs hold perpetual lease.

A vale of sorcery, the angler here
Forgets the fishes, toying with his rod;
The painter, seated on the mossy weir,
Over his palette soon will dream and nod.

Beneath the rude gray bridge is ever falling
The fair young river, here in passion's foam;
And one may listen to the sea-nymphs, calling
Their sister naiad from her mountain home.

Seldom the stream is sought by human eyes—
This virgin beauty in her loveliness;
Only an old gray homestead, matronwise,
Seems gravely looking at the river's stress.

But next the water takes a careless way,
Singing and laughing as young maidens will,
Half startled where the gentle cattle stray,
Or loitering, pensive, by the ruined mill.

Sometimes a veil of vapor intervenes,
The trees are all a-glisten with its dew,
And there lie Nature's secrets, virgin scenes,
And penetrable only to the few.

Last, like a bride, with half-concealèd smile,
Pride in her bearing and her footstep free,
The river, 'neath a cool, green-fretted aisle,
Moves, stately, to her wedding with the sea.