Classic Poem

Most birds sing in the morning. Freshest flowers
Are piled in the lap of May or summer June;
But thou, sweet warbler, in the afternoon
Hast waked a song amid the silent bowers
That long shall echo. Never Dryad powers
Bound on the brows of spring a wreath so fair
As that thou weavest in the fading hair
Of autumn. Thou art songstress of the hours.

When we would talk with nature, and would hear
The whispers that the world's loud voices drown.
Let this not be thy last sweet song; for then
The skies would weep with rain; in silence drear,
The birds would wait a song that hushed their own;
And sing no more until it came again.