Classic Poem

Whence come these sweet aeolian airs
Which, in the poet's inmost soul,
Awaken silent melodies?
I ask a wild rose blooming far
Afield, and thus it answered me:
" From places like to this, where love
Abides to start them with his breath. "
I questioned then a stately tree,
With leaves a-ripple in the breeze.
" From lonely woods, " it gave reply,
" Where Sorrow broods uncomforted. "
And then I asked a meadow-lark,
A-bobbing on the waving grass.
As quick, as blithe, its answer came:
" From meadows where I meet the Sun,
And brown bees rove in quest of sweets. "
The Tulledega, lying like
A purple shadow in the west,
Gave answer to my question, thus:
" From heights where stormy Passion speaks
In the language of the tempest. "

Whence come these sweet aeolian airs
Which, in the poet's inmost soul,
Awaken silent melodies?
I ask a wild rose blooming far
Afield, and thus it answered me:
" From places like to this where love
Abides to start them with his breath. "
I questioned then a stately tree,
With leaves a-ripple in the breeze.
" From lonely woods, " it gave reply,
" Where Sorrow broods uncomforted. "
And then I asked a meadow-lark,
A-bobbing on the waving grass.
As quick, as blithe, its answer came:
" From meadows where I meet the Sun,
And brown bees rove in quest of sweets. "
The Tulledega, lying like
A purple shadow in the west,
Gave answer to my question, thus:
" From heights where stormy Passion speaks
In the language of the tempest. "