Classic Poem

Flower-weeping April starts to life again,
When arch October for November weaves
A wedding garment in a shroud of tears.
'Tis made of pearlets splinter'd from the rain;
Or dew-drops shaken from the nodding spears
That guard the cold roots of the bare blackthorn;
And flowers (like April's,) hasten to adorn
Its mix'd hues, won from sunset. Through fall'n leaves
The primrose peeps! hom'd where the wren abides;
The violet, too! that would be lov'd, yet hides
Her beauty, dark with passion; and the whin,
Pale want's rough friend, laughs out to all “Good Morrow,”
And calls no child of woe a child of sin,
But, April-blossom'd, hoards a smile for sorrow.