Classic Poem

" Here mid the clover's crimson realm
We'll rest us through the glowing noon,
Beneath this broad and liberal elm,
Slow nodding to his hundredth June.

" On this low branch our scythes shall sway,
Fresh reeking from the field in bloom;
While, breathing o'er the new-mown hay,
The air shall fan us with perfume.

" And here the cottage maid shall spread
The viands on the stainless cloth, —
The golden prints, the snow-white bread,
The chilly pitcher crowned with froth.

" And you, fair youth, whose shepherd look
Brings visions of the pastoral time, —
Your hay-fork shouldered like a crook,
Your speech the natural voice of rhyme, —

" Although the world is far too ripe
To hark, — or, hearkening, would disdain, —
Come, pour along your fancied pipe
The music of some rustic strain.

" We'll listen as we list the birds, —
And, being pleased, will hold it wise;
And deem we sit mid flocks and herds
Beneath the far Arcadian skies. "

Thus spake the mowers; while the maid,
The fairest daughter of the realm,
Stood twining in the happy shade
A wreath of mingled oak and elm.

And this, with acorns interwound,
And violets inlaid with care,
Fame's temporary priestess bound
In freshness round her druids hair.

The breeze with sudden pleasure played,
And, dancing in from bough to bough,
Let one slant sunbeam down, which stayed
A moment on the crowned brow.

The birds, as with a newborn thrill,
Sang as they only sing at morn,
While through the noon from hill to hill
Echoed the winding harvest-horn.

With upturned face and lips apart,
He mused a little, but not long;
For clustered in his boundless heart
Sang all the morning-stars of song.