Classic Poem

Do you remember the meadow-field,
Where the red-ripe strawberries lay concealed,
Close to the roots of the scented grass,
That bowed to let the sunbeams pass
To smile on the buttercups clustering over
The drooping heads of honied clover?
Or the golden dandelions, milky-stemmed,
With which the spring fields were begemmed?
Do you remember the hawthorn hedge,
In its virginal bloom
Breathing perfume
Far along the water-worn ledge;
The crows, with their signals of raven-like caws,
Like Ethiope sentinels over the haws?
The wild roses flinging
Their sweets to the breeze,
While perched on the trees
The sparrow sat, singing
Its plain, homely melody, and the brown thrush
Flung mellowy peals from thickets of rush,
As the blackbird piped from his vocal throat
His one soft-syllabled, graceful note?
Gentlier breezes never blew,
Lovelier roses never grew,
Honeysuckles nowhere ever
Had a more delicious flavour,
Never hedge that ever budded
Was more delicately studded,
Never buttercups more yellow,
Clover sweeter or more mellow,
Than along this bank of flowers . . .
Mary, do you remember?