Classic Poem

Come up the grove, where softly blow
The winds, o'er dust, and not with snow,
A-sighing through the leafless thorn,
But not o'er flow'rs or eary corn,
Though still the walk is in the lew
Beside the gapless hedge of yew,
And wind-proof ivy, hanging thick
On oaks beside the tawny rick;
And let us talk an hour away
While softly sinks the dying day.

Now few at evening are the sounds
Of life, on roads or moon-paled grounds;
So low be here our friendly words
While still'd around are men and birds,
Nor startle we the night that dims
The world to men of weary limbs;
But let us tell in voices low
Our little tales, lest wind may blow
Their flying sounds too far away,
To ears yet out as ends the day.

For what we tell, and what we own,
Are ours, and dear to us alone,
Past joys, so sweet in after thought,
And hopes that yet may come to naught;
But wherefore should we not look on
To happy days till all are gone?
For if the day, so fair in dreams,
Should come less fair than now it seems,
Yet while a foreseen day seems gay
We have at once that happy day.