Classic Poem

In gay groves once you sped
On glancing wing,
Or dipped your gleaming head
In many a spring,
Dew-welling
And up-swelling
From roses red

Or in some garden fair,
Or glen remote,
While flitting here and there,
You hummed your note
Of pleasure,
For the measure
Of days so rare.

But on no bending bough
In gay green grove,
Or flowery garden now,
You flit and rove,
Sweet comer
Of the summer.
Shall I tell how

Your little feet find rest,
Your wings repose,
Within a golden nest,
Where neither rose
Nor lily,
White and chilly,
Hideth your breast?

A nest, that's like a throne
Upon a bower,
Where, reigning all alone,
Without a flower
To kiss there,
You never miss there
The brightest rose that's blown.

Where fixt and fast you swing,
Half poised for flight,
On stirless, heedless wing,
Night after night,
While harpers play,
And dancers gay
Through merry measures swing.

Through merry measures, where
A girl's face glances
Beneath its golden hair,
As down the dances
Her twinkling feet
To swift tunes beat,
While you above there,

O ruby-throated Hummer,
In your bower,
Forgetful of the summer
In its flower,
Caught in a snare
Of golden hair,
Watch each new-comer,

With eyes wide and unwinking
In their brightness,
And little head unthinking
Of the slightness
Of its hold
Upon the gold
Gay tresses, overlinking

Curl on curl, round a face,
Rising fair,
Like a lily in its grace,
Or a rare
Blush rose,
When it blows
From the green bud's embrace.

But rose or lily rare,
She has caught you
In a gay golden snare,
And has taught you,
Little Hummer,
That the summer,
Though so fair,

May spread many a net
For unheeding
Little rovers, who forget
Where they 're speeding,
Until, lo!
Ere they know,
They are set

Fast forever in a snare,—
Be its name
Lily, rose, or golden hair,
All's the same
So, gay Hummers
Of the summers
Yet to come,—beware!