Classic Poem

Tell me, ye reapers, tell me have ye found,
While binding up your sheaves of golden corn,
A little, laughing, lovely boy, around
Whose curly locks a harvest-wreath is bound?
Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn
Track your white lambs — say have ye seen forlorn
A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground
Trips sportively? Ye forests, that adorn
The mountains — ye sweet birds — ye flowing rills —
Ye list'ning rocks — heard ye that voice's sound,
Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills?
If ye have seen not — heard not — pity me —
Help me to find the maid I love — and be
Milder than unrelenting destiny.