Classic Poem

Wet with the last night's rain the wood-pile lies
Beside the walk. Around the crooked sticks,
Climbing with manifold coquettish tricks,
A morning-glory vine its antics plies,
And lights with vagrant gleam of green surprise
The darkness of the earthy-colored wood;
And like a self-forgetting thought of good
That mitigates the glare of sinful eyes,
Or like pure longings for release from strife,
Rare premonitions of the better part,
That rise from deeps below the usual life,
And send unwonted thrills through some worn heart,
Amid the mouldy wood's fantastic rows
A red and luminous morning-glory glows.