Classic Poem

" Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow? "
From all your uplands airy
The winds that come and go
Among our vales below
An elfin chime are bringing
That rhymes with naught we know ...
Or is it flowers a-singing?

Ah, whence the music, Mary,
That plagues the fancy so? ...
The tunes that turn and vary,
Vague pipes that breathe and blow,
Far bells that clash and throw
A sound like silence ringing,
And voices faint and slow ...
Or is it flowers a-singing?

Perchance when maids unwary
Went singing to and fro
You wove a web of faery
And charmed them, that they glow
Like roses in a row, —
With golden heads a-swinging
Where vocal waters flow ...
Or is it flowers a-singing?

Sweet magic must you strow
To set your gardens springing
With pretty maids, I trow ...
Or is it flowers a-singing?