Classic Poem

When the rivers rise in exultant grace
And the misty trees with their half-closed eyes
Like a dreamy Lover's waking face
Lift their heads to the morning skies;
While the first bird maddens the dewy brake
Thrilling a passion o'er and o'er
That hungers and trembles for love's own sake—
Lest sated rapture can no more!
With a daze of green on the upland steep,
'Neath a blur of hyacinthine hills—
With May-bloom flooding the veins of sleep,
We shall meet—with a joy that kills.