Classic Poem

When I had stopped to mark
How scrub in winter sheds its bark
And how the privet's eyes of jet
With laughter in the sun were wet,
A hand touched me behind;
I turned and lo! a bough swung on the wind.

Why is it that I stand
Half hoping that it was a hand
That struck the gentle blow?
One thing at least I know,
Beauty on earth I do not seek
More than I sought it on my mother's cheek.