Classic Poem

A QUIET reach of upland brown,
Green meadows stretching cool between;
Below, the busy little town,
Half hidden in its nest of green.

Far off, an aged woodman, gray
With years, and bent with toil and care;
His locks, uncovered to the day,
White-streaming on the summer air;

And near, the fall of little feet,
The music of a child's glad voice,
A ringing gush of laughter sweet,
That makes the very hills rejoice!

O worn old man! O laughing child!
I stand a link between ye two—
A quiet woman, thought-beguiled
One moment by the sight of you.

What I have been, what I shall be,
Is mirrored to me as I gaze;—
My happy childhood's spring-time glee;
The coming of my winter days.

Stream, stream your white locks on the wind,
And bide, old man, the weary end:
I am not very far behind,
And I shall reach you soon, old friend!

And chirp, glad child, your cheery glee!
In heaven's rejuvenating clime
We shall be mated yet,—we three,—
In youth's serene, perpetual prime.

So it doth matter little now;
Though, to my mind, best off is he,
The ripest on Life's fruited bough,—
Best off and happiest of the three.