Classic Poem

Once more, O robin, from the boughs of May,
Thou singest in the evening and the morn;
Thy carol bids farewell to parting day,
And at thy early wakening art thou borne
High up to hail the bright east with thy horn.
Lying at dawn, asleep half, half awake,
I hear thy joyous matins-music break.

Thou mouth-piece of the young and eager spring,
Dear memories from thy song do ever flow;
Thy voice doth set a stream meandering
Of thought which winds back to the long ago —
Which through that golden land doth wander slow:
Ah, little dost thou think, who singst so free,
What dreams — what dreams — thy music brings to me!