Classic Poem

Aye, up that lane for one short mile
I went, at evening, time on time,
By here a gate, and there a stile,
That I'd no wish to swing or climb,
The while I took my way to call
Where hung a gate I let fall to
Behind me, glad to step in through
Towards the door of Shirley Hall.

Aye, up the lane for one short mile,
Within twin-hedges in the lew;
But where at carry gate, or stile,
The fresh'ning wind came briskly through.
But whether wind might rise or fall
I heeded not, the while I found
The apple orchard's shady ground
And outer gate of Shirley Hall.

Aye, up the lane for one short mile,
In shelter'd shades of evening tide,
Where, through the gate, or o'er the stile,
No soul came in on either side.
And there I met no voice to call
My name, nor wanted I a mate
Beside me, as I sought the gate,
The farmyard gate of Shirley Hall.

The swinging gate that I let go
As I went in, a hopeful guest,
With smaller swings fell to and fro
To find at last its post of rest.
So I myself, where'er I roam,
Or north, or south, or east, or west,
Fall back in yearning mind for rest
On one true soul at that dear home.

Ive been wandering in the greenwoods
And mid flowery smiling plains
I've been listning to the dark floods
To the thrushes thrilling strains

I have gathered the pale primrose
And the purple violet sweet
Ive been where the asphadel grows
And where lives the red deer fleet

I've been to the distant mountain
to the silver singing rill
by the crystal murm'ring fountain
and the shady verdant hill

I've been where the poplar's springing
From the fair enameled ground
While the nightingale is singing
With a solemn plaintive sound