Classic Poem

The mountain winds are winnowing
The primrose banks along;
From bush to brake the wild birds sing;
The runnel-brook sweet murmuring
Thro' flowery meadows flush with Spring,
Dances to his own song.

The sun darts thro' the forest gloom,
And gilds the mossy stems;
The gray rocks buried in the broom
Peep from their yellow-waving tomb,
And hawthorn bud and heathy bloom
Scatter the ground with gems.

See in the sharp wind, blossom-bare,
The glistening holly glows!
The wild-rose stands with virgin air
Blushing aTher own beauty rare;
And lily, still more fearful fair,
Scarce her white bosom shows.

Hark! in each honey-bed you pass,
The burning hum of bees!
The ant-hill swarms, a rustling mass!
While in the brittle, singed grass
Dan Sol doth break the cricket's glass
And drinks the dewy lees!

To sorrel beds the conies stray,
The goats to upland sheen,
With mossy horns the wild deer play,
Twisting their heads in quiet fray,
The white lambs browse and bounce away,
The ox lies on the green.

O Ranger of the sunny hills,
How blissful it must be,
Amid the steepy rocks and rills,
Where Joy his horn of amber fills,
Fresh as from heaven the dew distils —
To live awhile with thee.