Classic Poem

He was the first to welcome Spring;
Adventurous, he came
To wake the dreaming buds and sing
The crocus into flame.

He loved the morning and the dew;
He loved the sun and rain;
He fashioned lyrics as he flew
With love for their refrain.

Poet of vines and blossoms, he;
Beloved of them all;
The timid leaves upon the tree
Grew bold at his glad call.

He sang the rapture of the hills,
And from the starry height
He brought the melody that fills
The meadows with delight.

And now, behold him dead, alas!
Where he made joy so long:
A bit of blue amid the grass,—
A tiny, broken song.