Classic Poem

Among the maple-buds we hear the tones
Of April's earliest bees, although the days
Seemed ruled by Mars. The veil of gathering haze
Spread round the silent hills in bluest zones.
Deep in the pines the breezes stirred the cones,
As on we strolled within the wooded ways,
There where the brook, transilient, softly plays
With muffled plectrum on her harp of stones;
Onward we pushed amid the yielding green
And light rebounding of the cedar boughs,
Until we heard—the forest lanes along,
Above the lingering drift of latest snows—
The Thrush outpour, from coverts still unseen,
His rare ebulliency of liquid song!