Classic Poem

Hath April wept herself into a dream
Of wond'rous joy? or a reality
Fairer and brighter than all dreaming? Deem
Not lightly, Bard, of her regality
In goodness. Lo, the beautiful are strong!
Lo, gentlest-love is power, whose noiseless stream
Keeps fresh the sea of life, which else would teem
Only with plagues! Oh, gold-bill'd Ouzle's song!
Hath Love's still might wak'd thee? Love's April! coldly
Primrosy airs breathe round thee. Clouds behold thee,
And mix thy music with their blushes. Morn,
Dew-glistening Morn, is silvering rock and tree,
While shadows shorten o'er the whitening thorn,
Perch'd on whose topmost-twig the woodwele hymneth thee.