Classic Poem

A day will come, in not undreamed of years
Where men shall wake with singing in their lips.
Their toil will bloom with hope uncursed by fears;
They will not labor to the tune of whips;
They will not close their days as battered ships!
Then all shall be as gods, Olympus-born,
And joy shall grace each heart. As beauty drips
From Summer downs, so from the fields of corn
Shall gladness be set forth on all the sons of morn.
Then lust will die, and gold will lose its lure.
No soul will gloat, while others starve for bread.
The lure of love will prove the ample cure
From all earth's ills, now meetly harvested.
Each man a king in pride shall lift his head,
And every child still bright with heaven's gleams,
Shall play in Eden gardens, tenanted
By fays and elves. By softly flowing streams
We men of earth shall find again our long-lost dreams.

A day will come, in not undreamed of years,
When men shall wake with singing on their lips.
Their toil will bloom with hope, uncursed by fears;
They will not labor to the tune of whips;
They will not close their days as battered ships!
Then all shall be as gods, Olympus-born,
And joy shall grace each heart. As beauty drips
From summer dawns, so from the fields of corn
Shall gladness be shed forth on all the sons of morn.
Then lust will die, and gold will lose its lure.
No soul will gloat while others starve for bread.
The lore of love will prove the ample cure
For all earth's ills, now meetly harvested.
Each man, a king, in pride shall lift his head,
And every child, still bright with heaven's gleams,
Shall play in Eden gardens, tenanted
By fays and elves. By softly flowing streams
We men of earth shall find again our long lost dreams.