Classic Poem

I

Full of beauty is the wayside well,
Overcanopied with leafage pleasant,
Where the spirits of coolness love to dwell
'Mid the heat incessant.

II

Here you see the weary wayfarer
Cool himself beneath the leafy shadow,
While the long grass scarcely seems to stir
In the unshaven meadow.

III

Here full often rest the smoking team,
Toiling movers of the broad-wheeled waggon:
Here the vagrant artist stays to dream
O'er his pocket-flagon.

IV

Hither also trips the rustic maiden.
Singing blithely through the wind-swept barley,
With her dark-red earthen pitcher laden,
In the morning early.

V

Talk of palm-tree shade and Arab lymph
In the bosom of a green oasis:
Talk of water which the Naiad nymph
'Mid dark Tempe places:

VI

Talk of icy wine Italian quaffed
In a cave of Pulciano's mountain:
There is nothing like a joyous draught
From the wayside fountain.