Classic Poem

Pure little bells, low swinging
Along the pasture ways,
Accept my rustic singing
Although I lack the bays!
For when the dew is ringing
Your pink with diamond rays
There's nothing fairer springing
In rich September days!

Like shy, sweet little lasses,
Your faces, fresh and clear,
Salute one as he passes
With courtesies kind and dear.
How glad I leave the masses
To linger with you here!
Oh, greet me 'mong the grasses
Till life is late and sere.