Classic Poem

Milk-white doe, 'tis but the breeze
Rustling in the alder trees;
Slumber thou while honey-bees
Lull thee with their humming;
Though the ringdove's plaintive moan
Seem to tell of pleasure flown,
On thy couch with blossoms sown,
Fear no peril coming.

Thou amid the lilies laid,
Seem'st in lily vest arrayed,
Fanned by gales which they have made
Sweet with their perfuming;
Primrose tufts impearled with dew;
Bells which heav'n has steeped in blue
Lend the breeze their odours too,
All around thee blooming.

None shall come to scare thy dreams,
Save perchance the playful gleams;
Wake to quaff the cooling streams
Of the sunlit river;
Thou across the faithless tide
Needest not for safety glide,
Nor thy panting bosom hide
Where the grasses shiver.

When the joyous months are past,
Roses pine in autumn's blast,
When the violets breathe their last,
All that's sweet is flying:
Then the sylvan deer must fly,
'Mid the scattered blossoms lie,
Fall with falling leaves and die
When the flow'rs are dying.