Classic Poem

Love of nest and mate and young,
Woke the music of his tongue,
While upon the fledgling's brain
Soft it fell as scattered grain,
There to blossom tone for tone
Into echoes of his own.

Doth the passion wholly die
When the fountainhead is dry?
Nay; as vapor from the sea,
Lives the dream eternally;
Soon the silent clouds again
Melt in rhapsodies of rain.