Classic Poem

& in the maple bush there hides the style
& then the gate the awthorn stands before
Till close upon't you cannot see't the while
Tis like to Ivy creeping oer a door
& green as spring nor gap is seen before
& still the path leads on — till neath your hand
The gate waits to be opened — & then claps — the sower
Scatters the seeds of spring beneath his hand
& then the footpath tracks the elting land.