Classic Poem

All the roses are under the snow:
Only the tips
Of the bare, brown, thorny bushes show.
Out of sight, pretty blossoms sleep
Sweet and sound; there are left for me
Fairest of roses, one, two, three, —
Where do you think?
On my baby's cheeks two, pale and pink,
And one that is ripe and red and deep,
On my baby's lips.

All the bonnie brown birds are flown
Far to the South.
Never a piping, fluted tone,
Never a silver, soaring song
From wood-path sounds, or meadow white;
Yet, in his hurried southward flight,
Some songster kind
Has left the sweetest of gifts behind:
Music that ripples all day long
From my baby's mouth.
All the stars have faded away;
The blue bright skies
Show not a golden gleam to-day
Where a thousand flashed last night;
But when the far lamps blaze again,
For the brightest you may look in vain
(Sly truants two),
Fast hidden away from me and you,
Under soft covers folded tight
In my baby's eyes.