Classic Poem

Never sings a city-robin on the gray-stone window-ledges
—But I dream the long, cool meadows where the yellow cowslips be;
To his call I guess an answer from the grass and tangled hedges—
—There's a thrill of other springtimes in the country soul of me!

Never falls light rain above me but I hear its gentle patter
—On a lonely roof at even, as I heard it years ago;
Through the music, warmth, and fragrance, past the sound of careless chatter,
—Throbs the silence of far places where the pines and birches grow.

I shall see a few more springtimes, then shall heed no answer lilted
—To that first full-throated robin, hear no rain above my head . . .
Give me, God, the meadow-blossoms when my formal wreaths have wilted—
—Let me lie till Thine Own Springtime with the pines beside my bed!