Classic Poem

There was a spot,
My favourite station when the winds were up,
Three knots of fir-trees, small and circular,
Which with smooth space of open plain between
Stood single, for the delicate eye of taste
Too formally arranged. Right opposite
The central group I loved to stand and hear
The wind come on and touch the several groves
Each after each, and thence in the dark night
Elicit all proportions of sweet sounds
As from an instrument. 'The strains are passed,'
Thus often to myself I said, 'the sounds
Even while they are approaching are gone by,
And now they are more distant, more and more.
O listen, listen, how they wind away
Still heard they wind away, heard yet and yet,
While the last touch they leave upon the sense
Is sweeter than whate'er was heard before,
And seems to say that they can never die.'