48
POEMS.
The wheat is like a sheet of gold
All ready for the reaper's hand,
The meadows green with greenest grass,
The river, beautiful and grand.
All ready for the reaper's hand,
The meadows green with greenest grass,
The river, beautiful and grand.
Sure! Pan might pipe a dulcet tune,
There are so many reeds to make
A magic music quaint and soft
And olden memories to wake.
There are so many reeds to make
A magic music quaint and soft
And olden memories to wake.
And in and out the tangled wood
A dryad or a faun might run,
Unknown to mortals it is true,
And yet revealed perhaps to one.
A dryad or a faun might run,
Unknown to mortals it is true,
And yet revealed perhaps to one.
So, student with the classic brow,
Come quit your books, and take a sip
From Nature's nectar, let it touch
The curved lines around your lip.
Come quit your books, and take a sip
From Nature's nectar, let it touch
The curved lines around your lip.
The gods have had you long enough,
To Pallas you must bid adieu,
Come down to us and let us look
For one brief month once more on you.
To Pallas you must bid adieu,
Come down to us and let us look
For one brief month once more on you.
Your Plutarch and Euripides,
With similar books of bygone date,
Horace and Ovid, and a host
Of others equally as great;
With similar books of bygone date,
Horace and Ovid, and a host
Of others equally as great;
Abandon them awhile, and bid
Farewell to sweet Athenae's shrine,
And from the city of the gods
Depart in peace, nor fret, nor pine.
Farewell to sweet Athenae's shrine,
And from the city of the gods
Depart in peace, nor fret, nor pine.
