Classic Poem

Dawn drives the dreams away, yet some abide.
—Once, in a tide of pale and sunless weather,
I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside,
—When suddenly the birds sang all together.

Still it was Winter, even in the dream;
—There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing;
The skies shone cold above the frost-bound stream:
—It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing.

Blackbird and thrush and plaintive willow-wren,
—Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling;
A golden web of music held me then,
—Innumerable voices, rising, falling.

O, never do the birds of April sing
—More sweet than in that dream I still remember:
Perchance the heart may keep its songs of Spring
—Even through the wintry dream of life's December.