Classic Poem

I thank ye, Mister wights, that ye have deem'd
So fairly of these lightly caroll'd lays
That I have chanted; albeit they seem'd
But silly rhymes, unworthy of all praise;
And never, surely, otherwise esteem'd
Than a bird's song, that, fill'd with sweet amaze
At the bright opening of the young, green spring,
Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling.