Classic Poem

Red Evening, in her green-and-silver robes,
Looks from the uplands on the lakes below,
O'er realms of hawthorn, white with little globes
In which is folded up May's fragrant snow.
With closing eyes, to sleep the daisies go;
Beneath the fire-flower'd broom awakes the hare;
And gentle winds are waiting, fain to blow
News of the open'd rose to sons of care
Who toil for coffins! where the brave despair,
There, lo, in Trade's dark street, his trade of woe
The ever-weary village-genius plies!
Poor Boy! he sees not that he daily dies;
Though oft' he longs to see the pink'd flower grow
Where, wing'd with love's glad strength, the wheeling plover cries.