Classic Poem

Spring, the Travelling Man, has been here,
Here in the glen;
He must have passed by in the grey of the dawn,
When only the robin and wren
Were awake,
Watching out with their bright little eyes
In the midst of the brake.
The rabbits, maybe, heard him pass,
Stepping light on the grass,
Whistling careless and gay at the break o' the day.
Then the blackthorn to give him delight
Put on raiment of white;
And, all for his sake,
The gorse on the hill, where he rested an hour,
Grew bright with a splendour of flower.