Classic Poem

Of Time and Nature still the fairest daughter,
Low-voiced Repose! Here thou dost ever dwell,
While Fancy wills no more to wander on.
With how few simples dost thou steep the sense,
Holding in soft suspense,
Like pauses in the tolling of a bell,
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
Nothing is here but woods and water,
Spaces, and stone, and a sculptor's wit
Simply tOfashion it
Into one long line of many niches,
Whose fountains are fed by the rushing riches
That, bowl to bowl, from the woodland pool
Fall in a rhythm clear and strong,
Singing to Nature her eldest song,
Prattling their paradox—restfully restless.
O March, with never a moment zestless,
Nor the sun too warm nor the shade too cool!
O May and the music of birds now nestless!
Come soon and brood o'er the woodland pool!
(For lover or nightingale who can wait?
Whenever he cometh he cometh late.)
The light plays over the ilex green,
Turning to silver the somber sheen,
And Spring in the heart of the day doth dwell
As the thought of a loved one dwells with me,
And only three cypresses to tell
“This is not Heaven, but Italy.”