Classic Poem

Thy is it that our life seems full of wrong?
That even poets, who are human birds,
Set saddest music to the saddest words,
And mingle sighs and tears in all their song?
For Chaucer's marguerites still bloom along
Our rustic fences, herdsmen and their herds
Know Shakespeare's cookoo-cups, and the new curds
Are hard and white, and violet-scent is strong:

'Tis not because the gods are silent all,
For in Siena the Brigata held
Their revels, and joy's golden badges wore, —
So sayeth sweet Folgore, — carnival
Reigned blithe and jocund; — Giant Thought has felled
The gay Page Laughter: there is mirth no more.