Classic Poem

Then May recrossed the southern hill, —
Her heralds thronged the elms and eaves;
And Nature, with a sudden thrill,
Burst all her buds to leaves.

Loud o'er the slope a streamlet flung
Fresh music from its mountain springs,
As if a thousand birds there sung
And flashed their azure wings.

" Flow on, " the maiden sang, " and whirl,
Sweet stream, your music o'er the hill,
And touch with your light foot of pearl
The wheel of yonder mill. "

It touched the wheel, and in the vale
Died from the ear and passed from view, —
Like a singing bird that is seen to sail
Into the distant blue; —

Died where the river shone below,
Where white sails through the vapour glowed,
Like great archangels moving slow
On some celestial road.