Classic Poem

There's a sleek thrush sits in the apple-tree
When it blooms all over with rosy snow,
And hark! how he opens his heart to me,
Till its inmost hopes and desires I know!
Blow, wind, blow,
For the thrush will fly when the bloom must go.

O a friend I had, and I loved him well,
And his heart was open and sang to mine,
And it pains me worse than I choose to tell,
That he cares no more if I laugh or pine:
Friend of mine,
Can the music fade out of love like thine!