Classic Poem

What hand may wreathe thy natal crown,
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down
Into this Earth's cold bosom?

And how shall mortal bard aspire —
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden —
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,
A pure and perfect Maiden?

Are not God's minstrels ever near,
Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?
Which shall we summon, Baby dear,
To carol forth thy praises?

With sweet sad song the Nightingale
May soothe the broken hearts that languish
Where graves are green — the orphans' wail,
The widow's lonely anguish:

The Turtle-dove with amorous coo
May chide the blushing maid that lingers
To twine her bridal wreath anew
With weak and trembling fingers:

But human loves and human woes
Would dim the radiance of thy glory —
Only the Lark such music knows
As fits thy stainless story.

The world may listen as it will —
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still
For very joy of singing.