Classic Poem

Sweetest is the time of waiting,
Time of floods, of buds dilating,
May has naught so captivating
As a clearing April noon.
Let not miry paths befool you,
Then the dampened woods will cool you,
And you'll hear the leaves' low croon.
Not in summer joys I'd wallow,
Give me but the blades that follow
Melting snows in pine-dark hollow,
And the earliest thrush's tune.

Best the lover's time of waiting,
Of betrothal ere the mating,
Spring has naught so captivating
As a secret sweetheart fair.
Seldom with her, soon asunder,
He will dream the strange wild wonder
Life so soon for him may bear.
Golden fruit, let others shake it,
Mine be not the hand to take it,
For my garden I'd forsake it
When the trees are budding there.