Classic Poem

O great dead poet who thine English lyre
With somewhat of the Italian charm didst sweep,
Is thy sweet song thus early lulled to sleep?
Hast thou too passed beyond our strong desire? —
But yesterday the wild world paused to weep
For Longfellow, — yet Spring new-clothed with fire
Is flushing as of old green bank and briar,
And through the perfumed woods the flowers' eyes peep.

Ye both are gone. Ye leave the Spring behind;
But, singers, is it summer where ye go?
Do there the eternal golden blossoms blow
That here just through one sunny May we find?
Is new strange fragrance wafted on the wind?
We ask, and doubt, and wonder, — but ye know.