Classic Poem

When the beech-trees are green in the woodlands,
And the thorns are whitened with may,
And the meadow-sweet blows and the yellow gorse blooms
I sit on a wind-waved spray,
And I sing through the livelong day
From the golden dawn till the sunset

comes and the shadows of gloaming grey.

And I sing of the joy of the woodlands,
And the fragrance of wild-wood flowers,
And the song of the trees and the hum of the bees
In the honeysuckle bowers,
And the rustle of showers
And the voice of the west wind calling as
through glades and green branches he scours.

When the sunset glows over the woodlands
More sweet rings my lyrical cry,
With the pain of my yearning to be 'mid the burning
And beautiful colours that lie
'Midst the gold of the sun-down sky,
Where over the purple and crimson and
amber the rose-pink cloud-curls fly.

Sweet, sweet swells my voice thro' the woodlands,
Repetitive, marvellous, rare:
And the song-birds cease singing as my music goes ringing
And eddying echoing there,
Now wild and now debonair,
Now fill'd with a tumult of passion that
throbs like a pulse in the hush'd warm air!