Classic Poem

Thou art the last rose of the year,
By gusty breezes rudely fanned:
The dying Summer holds thee fast
In the hot hollow of her hand.

Thy face pales, as if looking back
Into the splendor of thy past
Had thrilled thee strangely, knowing that
This one long look must be the last.

Thine essence, that was heavenly sweet,
Has flown upon the tricksy air:
Fate's hand is on thee; drop thy leaves,
And go among the things that were.

Be must and mould, be trampled dust,
Be nothing that is fair to see:
One day, at least, of glorious life
Was thine of all eternity.

A hut by the river, a light canoe,
My rod and my gun, and a sennight fair —
A wind from the South, and the wildfowl due
Be mine. All's well. Comes never a care.
A strain of the savage fires my blood,
And the zest of freedom is keen in me;
Ho, for the marsh and the lilied flood!
Ho, for the sloughs of the Kankakee!

Give me to stand where the swift currents rush,
With my rod all astrain and a bass coming in,
Or give me the marsh, with the brown snipe aflush,
And my gun s sudden flashes and resonant din;
For I am tired of the desk, and tired of the town,
And I long to be out, and I long to be free:
Ho, for the marsh, with the birds whirling down!
Ho, for the pools of the Kankakee!