Classic Poem

Peace , mournful Bee, with that
Man's deep voice from the grave:
My Lady comes, and Flowers
Make all their colours wave;
And joyful shivers seize
The hedges, grass and trees.

My Lady comes, and Leaves
Above her head clap hands;
The Cow stares o'er the field,
Up straight the Horse now stands;
Under her loving eyes
Flowers change to Butterflies.

The Grass comes running up
To kiss her coming feet;
Then cease your grumble, Bee,
When I my Lady meet;
And Arch, let not your stones
Turn our soft sighs to groans.