Classic Poem

Oh, bid the desert blossom as the rose,
For there is not one flower that meets me now;
On all thy fields lie heaped the wintry snows,
And the rough ice encrusts the fruitful bough;
Oh, breathe upon thy ruined vineyard still,
Though like the dead it long unmoved has lain;
Thy breath can with the bloom of Eden fill,
The lifeless clods in verdure clothe again;
Awake, ye slothful! open wide the earth
To the new sun and spirit's quickening rain;
They come to bid the furrows heave in birth,
And strew with roses thick the barren plain;
Awake, be early in your untilled field,
And it to you the crop of peace shall yield.