Classic Poem

Within what weeks the melilot
— Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad,
Or never knew or quite forgot,
— Save that 'twas while the year is glad.

Now know I that in bright July
— It blossoms; and the perfume fine
Brings back my boyhood, until I
— Am steeped in memory as with wine.

Now know I that the whole year long,
— Though Winter chills or Summer cheers,
It writes along the weeks its song,
— Even as my youth sings through my years.