Classic Poem

Some shining April I shall be asleep,
And over me the ancient joy shall pass;
I shall not see young Spring dance down the world
With ribbons of green grass.

But I shall dream of all that I have lost —
Breath of the wind, immortal loveliness,
Wild beauty of the sunlight on the hills,
Now mine no less.

Because I slumber. Nay, but more than mine,
Since I a part of them shall strangely be. ...
Only, I ask, when the pink hawthorn breaks,
That one shall think of me.