Classic Poem

Thou art like that which is most sweet and fair,
A gentle morning in the youth of spring,
When the few early birds begin to sing
Within the delicate depths of the fine air.

Yet shouldst thou these dear beauties much impair,
Since thou art better than is every thing
Which or the woods, or skies, or green fields bring,
And finer thoughts hast thou than they can wear.

In the proud sweetness of thy grace I see,
What lies within, a pure and steadfast mind,
Which its own mistress is of sanctity,

And to all gentleness hath been refined;
So that thy least breath falleth upon me
As the soft breathing of midsummer wind.