Classic Poem

The small birds peck at apples ripe,
And twice as big as them in size;
The wind doth make the hedge's leaves
Shiver with joy, until it dies.
Young Gossamer is in the field;
He holds the flowers with silver line —
They nod their heads as horses should.
And there are forty dappled kine
As fat as snails in deep, dark wells,
And just as shiny too — as they
Lie in a green field, motionless,
And every one now stares my way.
I must become a starer too:
I stare at them as urchins can
When seamen talk, or any child
That sees by chance its first black man.
I stare at drops of rain that shine
Like glowworms, when the time is noon;
I stare at little stars in Heaven,
That try to stare like the big Moon.