Classic Poem

When you ran in summer glades,
Till you, panting, could not speak,
When you bloom'd in summer shades
With the cool air on your cheek;
Then were times of hopes and joys
To you girls, and us the boys.
But how many do I find
Of the joys now left behind?
Not the day. Not the play.
Not my youth.—But the truth
That I ever found in you.

When you bloom'd in summer light,
In your father's grassy ground,
Where, in elms of stately height,
Coo'd his doves with lowly sound;
Then were days of happy years,
Full of mirth and free of fears.
And what good do you now feel
Of those days of worldly weal?
Not the leaze. Not the trees.
Not the dove.—But the love
That I ever bear for you.

When you bloom'd in summer, free
Of the ills that many rue,
You were taken forth to see
Sights and places new and new,
As the pride of ground you trode,
As the pride of steeds you rode.
And what now have you instead
Of that hopeful youth-tide fled?
Not the sights. Not the flights.
Not the days.—But my praise,
And my peaceful home for you.