Classic Poem

Hearing the flute call
Of my country's meadows still through March blasts,
There have I hurried out and farther to the amethyst
Changes of the willows small.

And at home at night
Quiet through poetry the day's roaring shaking and rising
Me has driven to music, great mood to iron-twisting changing:
Withered leaves at next seeing.

That at least gave dawn
When to the upper windows of the house all else still
Climbed I, saw magnificent dawn-pageant of the daffodil
And rose-on-thorn come on.