Classic Poem

Deep in a high valley, soft-footed, lonely,
Guarded by happy snow-hung woods for him only,
(Slopes of the green coombe were in flower with the cherry),
Danced, on an oak storm-fallen, one that was merry.
Look at the boy aloft, with one finger to stay him,
Toss'd on a frail bough wildly to weigh him,
Lording, on one bare foot, old Kronos occulted,
Long that had lain uprooted, stript, and insulted.
Up and down, the young villain, giddily swinging,
Gusty with creaking flight and the soar of singing
Higher and higher yet his balladry launches
Skyward, last carol to float from its branches,
Until grey-weather'd Cotswolds, themselves not sorry,
Ring with his small glee, quarry by quarry

O heavenly flowering orchards, that one who peruseth
The song of Prometheus freed, cunningly chooseth
To rove in at early dawn, bold downs and mazes
Of milk-white alleys, rising to far blue hazes
Of Stratford — a valiant barefoot master bestrides you!
As 'twere that lost truant, that hedger and ditcher
Escaped us, horseboy sage and the world's bewitcher.
His is the flood that churns in amongst woods to deliver —
Rocking in under us, mighty as Severn river.
Upheave, ye foaming shires, at sound of his coming!
Awake and arise, white canyons, fluttering and humming,
Again the abundant genius of joy betides you —
Loose, magnificent Spring in this brown whelp rides you!