Classic Poem

When I'm on a long, long “bye,”
'Neath a foreign rooftree resting,
Thoughts like swallows homeward fly
To the niche where you are nesting.

Then I wish I worked in sounds—
Words at best have limitations:
Music sets no metes and bounds
To the heart's communications.

Music's language could I reach,
I should write some pensive measures
Telling what our English speech
Cannot tell, for all its treasures.