Classic Poem

You ask me why I love you, sweet,
What makes me worship at your feet.

You tell me why this hawthorn tree
Produced the blossoms that you see;

And tell me why these thrushes here
Are making music for your ear;

You tell me why the sky is blue —
And then, perhaps, I'll answer you
— W AYNE G ARD , in the Chicago Tribune .

Nay, I can tell the reason of
My logicless and reverent love:

I know not why the hawthorn tree
Produced the blossoms that I see;

Nor know I why these thrushes here
Are making music for mine ear;

But oh, my love, the sky is blue
Because it's far away from you.

You ask me why I love you, sweet,
What makes me worship at your feet.

You tell me why this hawthorn tree
Produced the blossoms that you see;

And tell me why these thrushes here
Are making music for your ear;

You tell me why the sky is blue —
And then, perhaps, I'll answer you
— W AYNE G ARD , in the Chicago Tribune .

Nay, I can tell the reason of
My logicless and reverent love:

I know not why the hawthorn tree
Produced the blossoms that I see;

Nor know I why these thrushes here
Are making music for mine ear;

But oh, my love, the sky is blue
Because it's far away from you.