Classic Poem

Now that the swallow again we see,
Now daisy-burthened is every mead
And burthened the air with bird-minstrelsy —
What book shall I take in my nook to read?
Will a huge folio serve my need
From yonder musty and slumberous row?
All the May-morn on him shall I feed —
Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio?

Stay! if I took him, asleep should I be
In a moment, and even the birds would speed
To their nests, quick-stinting their melody
As though, all-timeless, dark night were freed.
Pass on! Yon history! Do you plead
For a hearing? Mighty of voice, I trow!
Shall I thrive on some old-world blood-bright deed,
Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio?

The sweet heaven-showers for the daisied lea
Are better than showers from heroes that bleed;
And the shriek of the clarion would slay the glee
Of the birds that love but the shepherd's reed —
Ah! and the lute of the singer! Have heed!
Here are the poets, with leaves that glow
Lovelier than lindens': take this, indeed? —
Or the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio!

Envoi .

Birds, I am coming. Do you proceed
With your lyrics; a lovelier song I know.
Look, here is a Swinburne , and here — base greed!
Are the rose-bright tales of Boccaccio!