Classic Poem

Bleak, rugged, hills, o'er which the winter snow
In wild gusts swept;
A sweet, green vale, a calm lake, lying low,
Where osiers dipt;
A clear, cool spring, whose trickling overflow,
Through tall grass crept.

There were some hearts that love me. Till my own
Shall cease to beat.
Whether I tread smooth ways, or jagged stone
With bleeding feet.
I still shall hold them precious (love alone
Can make life sweet.)

Long years have fled. Still stand, deep scarred and hoar,
The wind swept heights;
Still flows the spring, where parched lips, thirsting sore,
Quaff deep delights;
Still sleeps the lake, by moonbeams silvered o'er
On summer nights.

All these remain; scarce changed the peaceful scene.
Yet men grow old.
Locks that were dark are touched with frosty sheen;
Have hearts grown cold?
To know some few have kept the old love green—
'Twere joy untold.