Classic Poem

I LITTLE know or care
If the blackbird on the bough
Is filling all the air
With his soft crescendo now;
— For she is gone away,
— And when she went she took
— The springtime in her look,
— The peachblow on her cheek,
— The laughter from the brook,
— The blue from out the May —
— And what she calls a week
— Is forever and a day!

It's little that I mind
How the blossoms, pink or white,
At every touch of wind
Fall a-trembling with delight;
— For in the leafy lane,
— Beneath the garden-boughs,
— And through the silent house
— One thing alone I seek.
— Until she come again
— The May is not the May,
— And what she calls a week
— Is forever and a day!