Classic Poem

Ere the Spring comes near
O'er the smoking hills,
Stirring a million rills
To laughter low and clear
Till winds are hushed to hear,--

Ere the eaves at noon
Thaw and drip, there flies
A herald thro' the skies
With promise of a boon--
Of birds and blossoms soon.

Subtle though it be,
Yet sweetly sure that word;
E'en such my heart hath heard
(Over life's frosty lea)
Of Immortality.