Classic Poem

The noon hangs warm and still. Only the crow
Banters and chides with his importunate call
The world-wide silence resting over all,
Down by the hollow yonder, where the slow
Frail sheets of tremulous pools collect and grow,
A few bronzed cedars in their fading dress,
Almost asleep for happy weariness,
Lean their blue shadows on the puckered snow.
And as I listen, all my sense concealed
In the very core of silence, mirthfully still,
Where the first grass above the gleeting field
Lies bare and yellow on a tiny hill,
I hear the shore-lark in his search prolong
The little lonely welcome of his song.