Classic Poem

Young day has flung his saffron banner out,
And the first beamy spear-tips prick the world.
Straightway my wee ones will I set to work.
The hemlocks listen, the sullen brook runs dark,
Grim joy glows in the bones of the hoar oak;
How strong he is, and shapely! — Hither, chicks!
First, you that know the chambers of the winds,
See that they all are barred; let not a breath
Come forth of them. This done, lay hold, draw up
The sagging cloud that hangs behind yon mount,
And stretch his leaden length from east to west. —
The mild, the social, maples lean this way,
Hearing my words, and the clean beeches clap
Their scattered leaves; attentive turns the birch,
High-bred and delicate, and right happy nod
The water-loving alders. — Hear me, chicks!
Soon as the first flake flutters in the calm,
Caught like the thistledown in spider's web,
Get you abroad, and, as the white flowers come,
Consign them to the use of beauty; guide
And stay them through the grave and decent day.
Hark! we must have unguessed devices wrought;
Far up and down the unbroken loveliness
Must run so wondrous waves and dimply curves
Heaven shall reshape her clouds, and still despair
To match your magic. Mischiefs, mark me well!
Hood the prim steeple so the silly bell
Shall wag without a sound; pad soft the rock,
Stuff every hollow, cushion every knoll,
Ay, drape all nakedness to the utmost stretch
Of antic fancy, — bush and shrub and bough
And stump and stub and pole; on fence and wall
Bring to the task most exquisite caprice;
So fair confusion let wild beauty work
No man will know his own. Away! Away!