Classic Poem

To-morrow death: and there are woods hard by,
With restless spots of sunshine on the ground,
With bees that hum and birds that pipe all round,
And beds of moss where sparkling dewdrops lie.

To-morrow death: and there are fields of rye
Where poppies and bright corn-flowers abound;
And there are fragrant grasses, where the sound
Of streamlets rises, as the mowers ply.

I wonder if the woodland bells will close
A little earlier on the day I end,
Tired of the light, though free from human woes;

And if the robin and the thrush will wend
A little sooner to their sweet repose,
To make a little mourning for their friend?