Classic Poem

It comes to me when healths go round,
And o'er the wine their garlands wreathing,
The flowers of wit, with music wound,
Are freshly from the goblet breathing!
From sparkling song and sally gay
It comes to steal my heart away,
And fill my soul, mid festive glee,
With sad, sweet, silent thoughts of thee.

It comes to me upon the mart,
Where care in jostling crowds is rife;
Where Avarice goads the sordid heart,
Or cold Ambition prompts the strife;
It comes to whisper if I'm there,
'Tis but with thee each prize to share,
For Fame were not success to me,
Nor riches wealth unshared with thee.

It comes to me when smiles are bright
On gentle lips that murmur round me,
And kindling glances flash delight
In eyes whose spell might once have bound me.
It comes—but comes to bring alone
Remembrance of some look or tone,
Dearer than aught I hear or see,
Because 'twas worn or breathed by thee.

It comes to me where cloister'd boughs
Their shadows cast upon the sod;
Awhile in Nature's fane my vows
Are lifted from her shrine to God;
It comes to tell that all of worth
I dream in heaven, or know on earth,
However bright or dear it be,
Is blended with my thought of thee.