Classic Poem

The visions of the painter's heart
His pencil may express—
The sculptor's bright conceptions start
To life and loveliness.
Rich language to the soul hath brought
Full many a gentle word
To wing with life the lightest thought
By which its depths are stirred;
But not a language, or the tone
That gentle music brings,
Not all that breathes in sculptured stone
Or from the pencil springs—
Not all the dreams that people earth
With beings bright and fair
Can aid the heart to body forth
Thine image glowing there.

'Tis when the soul forgets its tears,
Its path of toil and pain,
And travels back through weary years
To be a child again;—
'Tis when the cheek its early glow
Of sinless beauty wears
And angel forms might bless a brow
As beautiful as theirs;—
'Tis when o'er childhood's slumbers deep
The dreams of Heaven descend,
And seraph forms that hallow sleep
With earthly visions blend:—
'Tis then the soul may tell the might
To thy sweet presence given,
Where earth but wreathes with lovelier light
The loveliest gifts of Heaven.