Classic Poem

This wreath of flowers that bids thee wait
A moment at the trellised gate
Shall lure thee to enchanted ground
Where all the singing birds are found,
Where flows the fount that never fails,
The Garden of the Nightingales!

—Behold the slender star that lifts
The fringe of Winter's narrowing drifts;
The violet that with open wings
Lights where the first-born verdure springs;
The bell-wort, swinging in the breeze
As if to call the wandering bees
To taste the honeyed lymph that shines
Globed in the clustering columbines.

—These heaven-kissed darlings never know
How sweet their breath, how bright their glow
They win the charm they never seek,
The perfume and the painted cheek,
Feel in their veins the morning's flame
Nor ask the sunbeam whence it came.

—Traced in the blossom's silken fold
Is not the Poet's story told?
Then grudge not to his flowering lays
The humble violet's meed of praise
For beauty, Nature's sweet surprise
Must read itself in other's eyes,
And till the welcome echoes ring
The song-birds hardly know they sing.