Classic Poem

By mountain-pass and long stone-sprinkled alley,
Through sweet vicissitudes of barrenness,
Our pathway lies,—with scarce a tree to bless
The worn wayfarer in the noonday valley.
My months have many turns like these, and each
Seems to drop down to lowlands broad and winning;
But the hills hold them upward: will they reach
Ere night the promise of their green beginning?
Thus my young life its own poor image takes
From bleak Caernarvon's small, unwooded lakes.
A man with many homes hath none to spare.
Though he beget in calm, rock-shaded places
Welcomes, farewells, joys, griefs, and soothing faces,
There is no echo to them in the air.