Classic Poem

Seldom we see such crude cold winter times;
Yon sooty patch upon the snow-clad weald—
Is that, indeed, the bower of honied limes?
The balm-grove, where a ten-years' wound was heal'd?
Where Annie sat with Ambrose? where she tried
A cure more sweet than Gilead's pharmacy?
And did she read him his rich destiny
In that dark holt that blurs the white hill-side?
The brook, I trow, is bound in frosty bands,
Where Rover plash'd, and, venting merry tones,
Trod in the summer-light that swam the sands;
While, sportive in their bliss, those plighted ones
Confused his eager ear with dropping stones,
But evermore reclasp'd their happy hands.