Classic Poem

Where honeysuckles round our porch entwine,
Two mated thrushes wove their hidden dwelling,
Some instinct of familiar trust impelling
(More subtly true than timorous design)
Their choice of nesting in that house of vine.
They are returned! each tender bosom swelling,
Athrob with joy of spring, their love retelling,
Intoxicate with song's melodious wine!
Morning and evening, still one madrigal,
In few soft flute-notes warbled sweet and clear,
Quavers upon the perfumed atmosphere!
Their mutual bliss do these dear songsters call,
All else unheeding; but the valleys hear,
And echo to the green hills, “Love is all!”