Classic Poem

The sorrel lifts her snow-white bloom
From green leaves soft and sour,
The wryneck bids the cuckoo come,
The wych-elm's all in flower;
That tweet! tweet! tweet! that dusty dew,
That white star at my feet,
They speak of Aprils past — and you,
My sweet!

Our wood still curves against the sky,
And still, all stark and dim,
Our hornbeam's fluted branches lie
Along the shining rim;
But ah! within its base of moss
The rabbits leap and peer,
No footsteps fright them as they cross —
This year.

When winter shared my hapless plight,
I bound my heart in frost;
There was no wealth to vex my sight
With treasure it had lost;
But oh! the buds, the scent, the song,
The agonising blue —
They teach my hopeless heart to long