Classic Poem

O TENDER love of long ago,
O buried love, so near me still,
On tides of thought that ebb and flow,
Beyond the empire of the will;
To-night with mingled joy and pain
I fold thee to my heart again.

And down the meadows, dear, we stray,
And under woods still clothed in green,
Though many Springs have passed away
And many harvests there have been,
Since through the youth-enchanted land
We wandered idly hand in hand.

Then every brook was loud with song,
And every tree was stirred with love,
And every breeze that passed along
Was like the breath of God above;—
And now to-night we go the ways
We went in those sweet summer days.

Dear love, thy dark and earnest eyes
Look up as tender as of yore,
And, purer than the evening skies,
Thy cheeks have still the rose they wore;
I—I have changed, but thou art fair
And fresh as in life's morning air.

What little hands these were to chain
So many years a wayward heart;
How slight a girlish form to reign
As queen upon a throne apart
In a man's thought, through hopes and fears,
And all the changes of the years.

Dear girl, behold, thy boy is now
A man and grown to middle age;
The lines are deep upon his brow,
His heart hath been grief's hermitage;
But hidden where no eye can see,
His boyhood's love still lives for thee,—

Still blooms above thy grave to-day,
Where death hath harvested the land,
Though such long years have passed away
Since down the meadows, hand in hand,
We went with hearts too full to know
How deep their love was long ago.