Classic Poem

The goddess gone! ah, no more here
But wrapt up with our school-boy gear
Of dactyl and trochee, no more
On this side of the Stygean shore!
The Sickle too, when I was young,
A doleful when, so long ago!
Was polished bright though never sung.
But now alack, it too must go
Among forgotten things too slow
For these our frantic hours of speed:
No more the boast of kirtled maid,
It rusts among the long decayed;
Nor more, like Ruth, the gleaner need
Stoop her flexile back to-day.
Make clear the way!
The grand machine with man and steed,
And countless knives and clash of steel,
Passing on its dangerous fray,
Makes the child run, the old man reel.
Nor there the end, with welcome sway
From prairies vast the steamship braves
The grim Atlantic's mightiest waves,
Filled with grain from that far land.
The farmer turns his eyes away,
The Sickle dropping from his hand.