Classic Poem

A cloud of crystal, veined with gold
Slow drifting in the rosy west
Is not more lovely to behold
Than thou art, — and thy father's breast,
While fond affection holds her seat,
Will keep that image of thy grace,
Thy buoyant form, thy gentle face,
Thy spirit, ever blythe and sweet, —
In frolic and in love complete!
And so, dear child, — though mountains rise
Between us, and our brooding skies
Are alien, — wheresoe'er thou art,
Thy constant home is in thy father's heart.