Classic Poem

Wreaths of golden cloud are glancing,
Elves upon the lea are dancing,
While the sedge-crowned nixie ever
Plays his fiddle from the river.

But a lad in clumps of willow,
Hearing music from the billow,
Calls o'er violet-perfumed meadows
Through the silent evening shadows:

“Poor old boy, how can you play so?
Can you make your sad heart gay so?
Though you cheer all else in nature,
You can never be God's creature.

“Heaven's beauteous moonlit bowers,
Eden crowned with blooming flowers,
Angels bright with hues elysian,—
These will never bless your vision.”

Tears flow down the nixie's face then,
And he sinks to his own place then.
Silent is the fiddle. Never
Sounds the music from the river.