Classic Poem

AS ONE who lieth on a bed of death,
And knowing in truth that he hath soon to die,
For months and months in silent dream doth lie,
And mind grown clear, his whole life pondereth,
And sees it fade before him like a breath
That smokes a glass; so thou, hushed month, dost dream
The whole year's memories in thy quiet gleam
Of inward thought that no speech uttereth.

Here, haply, musing by thy silent fields,
Thy ripened woods, thy brown, shorn harvest floors,
And hazy hillsides, he who seeks may find
The sort of soul he is, and at thy doors
Of inward contemplation lend his mind
To those high reveries nature's heart reveals.