Classic Poem

It is the young fresh rainy leaf
That brushes my cheek as I pass the wood:
And O what a treasure's the tear of Spring
To them that have lost the weeping mood.

The lark sings up in the shower; the brakes
Chirrup the more at the sorrow of May
And O that my heart again were rich
With the wanton grief of my early day

And O that my heart this fragrance gave
And greener grew to the touch of grief;
And O that my heart saw Heaven peep thro'
The wreaths of the young fresh rainy leaf!