Classic Poem

Whither hath the Wood-thrush flown,
From our greenwood bowers?
Wherefore builds he not again,
Where the white-thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings,
The sunny year he bringeth;
And the heart unlocks its springs,
Wheresoe'er he singeth.

Lover like the creature waits,
And when Morning soareth,
All his little soul of song,
Tow'rd the dawn he poureth.

Sweet one, why art thou not heard
Now , where woods are stillest?
Oh, come back! and bring with thee,
— Whatsoe'er thou willest;

Laughing thoughts — delighting songs,
Dreams of azure hours, —
Something, — nothing; — all we ask
Is to see thee ours!

'Tis enough that thou should'st sing
For thy own pure pleasure:
'Tis enough that thou hast once
Sweetened human leisure!