Classic Poem

She is like the sorrel's white bud
That grows in a sun-watered wood
In springtime, opening with brief sun;
But whenever the day is done
Or sky is overcast by cloud
Quickly her slender head is bowed.

But birds are busy in that wood;
They have no time to seek for food;
And sluggish and enormous trees
Pull their green smocks down to their knees;
And even the sun, centuries old,
Renewing youth shakes off the cold.